


Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box"

by frogfarm



Series: Faith the Vampire Slayer [16]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: F/F, Free Agency, Gen, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having broken away from the New Council to strike out on their own, Faith and Willow continue to investigate the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles in search of clues to the fate of Team Angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box"

     _Either you bring the water to L.A., or you bring L.A. to the water._

       - Chinatown

  
   "Small mocachino, please. Uh...heavy mocha, less chino."

   "No problem. Can I interest you in today's special flavor syrup?" The barista's bright eyes peer out from under shaggy bangs, likely a match to his bushy tail. Thankfully, metaphorically speaking.

   "And that would be?"

   "Non-alcoholic creme de menthe. Instant grasshopper, grasshopper."

   "No bugs today, thanks."

   "Comin' right up."

   Willow makes her way upstairs, cradling drink in one hand, her trusty notebook in the other. The upper level of the East Street Coffee Joint is deserted at this hour, and she claims a seat in back overlooking the lobby. The machine springs out of hibernation as she cracks open the case, its screen still dark until her hands conjure forth the passphrase with the proper timing.

   The cup beside her goes untouched, growing cold. Right now her stress level is high enough already, the sugary goodness a mere distraction. The clatter of dishes, the clamor of the morning crowd, all combine to form a disarming air of domesticity; teenagers and professionals alike, united in their all-consuming quest for caffeine and carbs. And she the sorceress supreme, too nervous to return the cute barista's smile even if he'd been a girl. As if the secret agent routine were necessary for any reason, anyone other than --

   "You're certain of this?" Giles isn't too badly pixellated, but his face is consigned to a classic nineties postage stamp rather than her entire display. The fuzziness and general lack of resolution actually make him look younger, rather than as he appeared in yesterday's vision. "Things are volatile as it is."

   "Let me worry about Faith." Willow doesn't belabor the point. Currently the Slayer is back at Lorne's, helping transform the decrepit duplex into something marginally less hovel-y.

   "After our previous virtual communication, the irony of this clandestine foolishness is not lost upon me." The small chuckle is barely audible through her laptop's speaker. "I suppose I ought to be putting quill to paper."

   "So what's it like over there?"

   "Rank and file in an uproar, as expected. More or less equally divided." _And the glasses come off._ "One squad tried to abduct Dana. Though they described it as more akin to an act of liberation."

   Willow blinks. "She didn't go with them?"

   The dry chuckle is more sepulchral than usual, an artifact of her homebrew speech codec. "You sound surprised."

   "A little. Not much," Willow amends. "What happened?"

   "She broke two arms and an elbow before Dawn managed to convince her we were safe."

   Willow expresses her sympathy with a wince. "She attacked her own rescuers?"

   "She said, and I quote: 'I don't need rescuing.'"

   Willow remains silent, lost in thought until Giles clears his throat.

   "In any event," the Watcher continues, "her response would appear to have helped stabilize matters. At least for the time being."

   Willow regards him with a flood of nostalgia. "It's good to know you haven't changed."

   Giles manages a wry smile. "Like scotch, only for the better."

   "Any idea who else might try reaching out to us? I mean, in the core group. The Sunnydale Scoobies."

   "Buffy, I can't say." Giles hesitates, looking more haggard. "She truly is devastated."

   Willow doesn't reply.

   "Xander, perhaps. Most likely Dawn."

   "You think? I know she wasn't real big on either of the big sister boyfriends."

   "Be that as it may." Giles dons his glasses once more, stroking his chin. "I'm sorry."

   "Yeah." Willow reaches out for her mochachino, then draws back once more, hands twisting aimlessly in her lap. "Road to hell, and all."

   "I hope you can forgive me --"

   "I don't need to." Willow's mind drifts back to Devon; cold rain and hot tea, swaddled in blankets in Giles' library chair between sessions with the coven, gazing out the windows. "I understand."

   "If -- when Faith can hear it from you. Please tell her as well."

   The lump in her throat needs swallowing. "I'll try."

   "And if you are ever in need, I want you to contact me at any time, day or night. In an emergency, if there is truly no need for subtlety --"

   "Giles." Willow cuts him off as gently as possible. "Do I really need to remind you what we both know?"

   The older man heaves a sigh. "We're more likely to need you."

   "If there's a real crisis, you know who to call. But -- and I hate to sound all Stepford-wifey on this --"

   "You don't want to have to lie."

   "If I'm going to be with Faith -- with anyone -- I can't be leading a double life. Going behind her back." Willow swallows again, reaching out until her fingers barely brush the screen.

   "I understand perfectly." Giles nods. "It needs to be a clean break."

  
**

  
   "Bones _shattered_ , you hear me? We're talking ground to make my fricking Wonder bread. I'm talking _medieval_ vengeance."

   "You got it, boss."

   "These clowns need to learn their little uniforms don't impress."

   "Absolutely, boss."

   "And stop calling me that if you want to keep your head."

   "Got it."

   "Sir neither. Don't call me sir, I work --"

   "For a living. Absolutely." The vampire shifts nervously on his feet. "Can I go do that now?"

   "Go."

   Kazarkh watches his minion depart before rising from his seat with a growl, waddling over to the corner to fetch the broom. Stupid fledgling got fresh dirt all over his carpet. All part of the price of cheap labor; creating new soldiers to replace the old. Most of his trusted lieutenants had been dusted, decapitated or otherwise disposed of. Another downside to using vamps for the bulk of one's work force. Give him a Fyarl any day of the week. Wolfram and Hart may have been scattered to the winds, but the common demon crowd of the greater Los Angeles area were still wary of poking their heads out to see if spring had come.

   All except those smart enough to know the uptown crowd isn't the only threat.

   He picks up his phone, cursing its poorly designed speed dial as his claws fumble to press the buttons.

   "Jerry, my man. How's it hanging?"

   " _I told you not to call me at work!_ "

   "Careful, now. Don't want anyone to hear you."

   " _What do you want?_ "

   "To give you some more dead presidents." Kazarkh chuckles as his forked tongue glides over his fangs, twice as long as any vamp's and ten times as attractive. At least in his opinion. "Unless you're not in the market."

   " _I can't talk now. Usual place, okay?_ "

   "I'll have someone there. And Jerry? This is important."

   " _So's my freakin' job!_ " Fear and anger boil out of the receiver. " _Which if I lose, you lose! Got it?_ "

   "You might want to remember what happened to your buddy. Trevor, I think it was?"

   " _Have a nice day._ " The sarcasm ends with a click, and Kazarkh replaces the phone in its cradle with a sigh.

   "Lushawn?"

   The door to his office cracks open, a mop of purple hair poking inside. "Yeah?"

   "Tell the boys not to take him out after he delivers the goods. We're keeping him around a bit longer."

   "Done. You know, you don't need to explain yourself to me --"

   "Yes, I do. Because you're one of the smart ones."

   "I am?" Lushawn brightens, pink horn glowing beneath the waves of hair. "Oh right."

   "Don't let it go to your head." He waves the other demon away. "Now go do some damage."

   The drawer to his desk slides open, the door to his office swinging shut. Kazarkh snarls, claws snagging and skittering for the remote, jabbing its obstinate buttons until the monitor on the far wall springs to life; a grained-out image in binary black and white, mirroring the two young women in the sights of the camera eye.

   "One Mississippi."

   Kazarkh leans back in his chair, squinting as he draws a bead on them with one claw.

   "Two Mississippi..."


	2. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box"

_  
**Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box" (Act 1)**   
_   


>   
> _And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?_  
>    - Solzhenitsyn

 **(** [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/124399.html#cutid1) **)**

  
 **Faith the Vampire Slayer  
Year One**

by [](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/profile)[**frogfarm**](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/) ([damaged justice](mailto:realfrogfarm@gmail.com))

  
zen mastery and ultimate approval by [](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/profile)[**strapping_lass**](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/)  
nit crushing and silent running by [](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/profile)[**sam_arkand**](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/)

  
 **1x07:**

 **"Outside the Box"**

  
   Spending her nineteenth birthday in a coma, the twentieth through twenty-second behind bars, has blessed Faith with an overabundance of perspective. Something she hadn't exactly been lacking in before. Not like she'd been living the life of Riley.

   ( _except that one time_ )

   Point being, she's got nothing to prove; no cred needed to establish the lack of any silver spoon in her mouth. Unlike the one in B's --

   Another growl simmers in her throat. Faith purses her lips against the flood of memories, taking out her aggressions on this new foe.

   "Easy, honey. I need to walk on that floor!"

   "Eat your damn soup," Faith mutters as she turns back to her chosen task. The stain on the boards resists her efforts, but stubborn is this Slayer's middle name.

   They'd come here on fire, in the heat of the moment. But the trail had gone cold, and over a week's worth of solid investigation had failed to come up with the slightest trace of Team Angel, or whatever might be left. Right now Will was in search of fresh coffee and fresher leads, leaving Faith to feel super-duper special for actually having an ounce of care, a single kernel of concern. Like the witch needs a worrywart. As if Will can't handle anything short of a tactical nuke. And even then --

   Of course she knows exactly where the other woman is, at the very least what it is that her witch-tastic girlfriend is doing behind her back. Faith doesn't mind. Willow can say what she can't, sever the ties that bind without more drama and scar tissue.

   She doesn't think it'll happen again.

   She also told herself that her own reluctance to be seen in public was a sensible reaction after the way they blew into town with a bang. Stood to reason a grand entrance might attract the wrong kind of attention. But now she's thinking her own fear is more to blame, the still-unresolved status of fugitive and violent felon hanging over her head. Stupid not to tread light now that she's back in the city where most of the shit went down. But the self-imposed restriction chafed like a tight corset, and the additional knowledge of Willow's relatively minor betrayal had driven Faith to the solution she had learned at the hands of Diana Dormer, drilled ever deeper by the traitorous Gwendolyn Post, made solid and permanent by her years as a guest of the great state of California. Everything clean and shiny.

   Spartan.

   Mostly, she'd just been itching for something -- anything -- to save her from the terminal boredom of being confined to a cramped, messy and likely soon-to-be-condemned apartment while the sky remained slate-grey, pouring buckets on the just and unjust alike. Except wanted fugitives.

   And anyone else smart enough to come in out of the rain.

  
**

  
   Lorne hasn't decided whether he'd rather be woken up by the sounds of cleaning or vomiting. Only when the effort of pretending to be asleep overcame the pleasure of watching their backsides had he managed to pry open his eyes, finding the pesky Slayer nowhere in his field of vision. He can hear her though, off in the other room, scrubbing away.

   Now there's a word. _Vision_. Reminds him of a smile that never quit. And speaking of, there's his own most recent: The nightmare abyss of destiny laid out before him like a monolith towering over an uncomprehending chimp. And he'd thought his glimpse of Cordy and the Beast was the worst it could get. If he'd seen his own, he might still be able to say nothing else came close. Even now his grasp of the big picture was hazy and insubstantial, as his mind lost its hold on more of the sordid details.

   And as far as explaining the intricacies of the Slayer's future to the woman herself, even under duress...as if he weren't already constrained enough by simple decency, if not pragmatism! No metamagical padlock prevented his mouth from uttering certain words or phrases. But even the least complicated fortune was difficult to distill into wisdom without coming across like so much stale and crumbling cookies. If the director's cut of Apocalypse Now were drawn out to the running time of the unedited Spinal Tap -- with all of the charm that actual procedure would entail -- Lorne would still take it over having to read Faith again, at all, ever.

   Still, he was a big boy. Nobody had held a gun to his head forcing him to read her; to offer the hospitality of his home sweet hovel.

   Damn that Nobody.

   Willow should be back soon, with mandatory caffeinated beverages. Maybe today will be the day she joins Faith in demanding that Lorne give up the secrets of his reading. Or maybe not. He still thinks she could go either way. At least in that sense. But she'll be back soon, and so Lorne allows himself to sit up and smile. Rejoin the land of the living, for a spell.

   Life. It still beats the alternative.

  
**

  
   The light drizzle is turning to downpour, matching Willow's mood as she hurries up the sidewalk to Lorne's run-down apartment. Her mocha refill sloshes in a takeout paper cup, watered down with yet more dairy. She can feel her facial muscles strain and twitch, trying to maintain the look of innocence as she sternly reminds herself that feeling guilty means you did something wrong. And she hasn't.

   Not this time.

   She opens the door to find Lorne, propped up on his throne of cushions.

   "Ahoy, you salty dog!" The demon waves his spoon at her. Willow smiles.

   "Nice to see you feeling a little more oaty."

   "A trick of the light." Lorne leans back with a dramatic sigh. "Don't worry. You don't have to be polite."

   "Oh, I'm not." Willow downs the remaining mocha in a single slug, searching in vain for a wastebasket. "I'm rude as all get out. But your green is looking...more avocado. Less pea-soupy."

   "Faith really gave the place a makeover." Lorne glances around the room with approval. "More than it deserves. More than _I_ deserve," he concludes under his breath. Willow's ready to risk opening her mouth when he looks up.

   "But still." The weary smile seems genuine. "It's got potential."

   Willow realizes what's missing. "Where is she?"

   "Just took another load of trash down. Mostly bottles," Lorne adds with a grimace. "Really, she's done plenty for one day. Heck, for all time. You two should go out and enjoy yourselves."

   "Tempting." Willow finds an empty plastic bag, stowing away her empty cup. "But you can't get rid of us that easy. We've still got multiple avenues of investigation to pursue --"

   "Check her out." Faith stands leaning in the doorway, a smirk on her lips. "Little Miss Marple."

   Willow eyes the kerchief covering the Slayer's head. "I'd make a Little House joke if I didn't think it would cost more than it's worth."

   "I'm secure in my manhood." Faith nonetheless removes the piece of cloth, shaking her hair loose. "Stirred up a lotta dust. Few dead mice."

   "I'm impressed," Willow admits.

   "Surprised?" Faith gives her a shrewd look. "Why go to all that effort?"

   "More like --" Willow gestures at the bed in the corner. "I mean, _I_ don't know how to fold a hospital corner. I'm sure Xander does, with all his -- military learning..."

   She stumbles to a halt, her face growing crimson. Faith ignores the _faux pas_. If this keeps up, it's going to turn into the Scottish play. Or Harry Potter.

   "Gwen Post." The name sounds so casual coming from Faith that Willow can almost forget the hated history behind it.

   "What about her?"

   "She was real big on the spic and span. When I was in the joint...it helped." The Slayer shrugs, dismissing the memories. "What'd you get me?"

   "Coffee? Oh, no." Willow fumbles, cheeks feeling the familiar burn. "Sorry. I didn't --"

   "It's cool." Faith waves her cigarette pack at Willow in a vaguely explanatory manner. "Be back."

   _Krupke_. Willow watches the door shut, abrutly envisioning an endless new series of potential relationship minefields. In an effort to end the awkward silence as soon as possible, she turns to the only other available party.

   "I'd like to examine you."

   Lorne draws the blanket up to his chin. "In what way?"

   "Believe me," Willow sighs. "I read enough of your mind the other night. I'm not any more eager to repeat the experience than I imagine you are."

   "Reverse psychology." Though his tone remains cautious, Lorne's posture shows a faint relaxation.

   "You don't have to wear an embarrassing gown with a flap," Willow points out. "And not that it matters, 'cause, well, gay -- but your modesty is completely safe. You don't even have to unbutton your shirt."

   Lorne eyes her warily. "You're sure?"

   "Won't take a minute. I just want to do a quick scan, and then I am absolutely done badgering. Not even a hamster." Willow raises her eyebrows, trying to sound responsibly nurse-like. "Deal?"

  
**

  
   Faith's been out on the stoop far longer than it takes to catch a smoke, especially with these modern cigs that go out if you're not constantly puffing away. Rain's starting to let up, but the sky still looks like black and white static. She catches herself pulling out another one, stuffs it back in the pack and sits under the rickety porch, watching the world go by. Of it, not in it.

   Again with quotes from the good book. Ain't that the biggest kick in the head, every time it happens? The consequences of a tragically and chronically underfunded prison library. Stupid regrets creeping out of the woodwork, making her wonder yet again how spontaneous or smart her decisions have been.

   Her belly grumbles, and Faith sits up with a sigh. Time to go back and face the music.

   Lorne is upright when she walks in, Willow across from him on the couch. She's about to speak when the witch's eyes open.

   "Clean bill of health. Apart from some accelerated cellular damage -- probably the booze, environmental stressors like pollution." Willow's pronouncement is disgustingly cheerful. "All things considered, you're in good shape for a guy who just spewed up crimson and clover."

   "My apologies for the skittishness." Despite her assurances, Lorne's anxiety persists. "Pylean kids don't get a lot of practice playing doctor. Executioner, maybe --"

   "It's okay," Willow gently interrupts. "I understand. We're not going to bring any more trouble to your door."

   "Yeah," Faith chimes in. "We'll be outta your horns in no time."

   "Are you kidding? If I can't be the Host, I might as well dismember myself." Lorne spreads his arms, encompassing the room. "Mi crumbling casa es su. As in please don't sue me if the roof caves in."

   "You sure? And I'm not askin' to be polite," Faith hastens to add.

   "If anything nasty comes a-knocking, you two can scare 'em away." Lorne tosses the blanket aside, running one hand through his increasingly shaggy hair. "Company kept means less time in a bottle."

   "Cool." Faith manages to sound a little less stressy. "Well -- no sense puttin' it off."

   Willow looks stricken. "You mean --"

   Faith gives her a fatal nod. "Time to get down to it."

  
**

  
   "Is it like knife fighting?"

   Kate looks up, immediately suspicious. David slouches in the chair, surveying the collection of stakes spread out on the table between them.

   "Beg pardon?"

   "Without an edge." David scratches his ear as he gazes at the hand-carved lengths of wood. "Just the point."

   "You still owe me ID." Kate feels a frown crease her brow, taking pains to smooth it away. Thankfully, she has years of experience maintaining a poker face. "If one of my former colleagues should ask, you're on your own. I don't know you from Adam."

   "Oh, that?" He digs in his pocket, fishing out a battered lump of leather and handing her a small piece of laminate. Looks just like him. Big surprise.

   She gives it a moment's casual scrutiny before returning it with a shrug. "Probably fake."

   "Depends who you ask." David's fingers nervously stroke his chin stubble, seeming reluctant to reach out and pick up a stake. Kate doesn't encourage him.

   "You're quiet this morning," she ventures.

   David shrugs back. "Guess I ran out of questions about weapons."

   "You do seem to have a narrow range of interests."

   "Trust me. I'm not gay."

   "I know." Kate refrains from smirking. "The gay ones at least pretend to check out my chest."

   "I thought it was a little early to progress to the sexual harassment phase of our relationship."

   "And yet you still can't, or won't, tell me anything about your multiple cases in progress --"

   "Besides the girl," David interjects. "She's the big one. Any idea where to find her?"

   "We can look." Kate remains noncommital. "What do you want her for?"

   "Babysitting."

   "I assume it's not murder?"

   The barest of hesitations, not quite selfconscious enough to seem like a feint. "I don't know."

   Kate doesn't hide the scoff at this transparent projection of honesty.

   "I told you before," David continues, unrepentant. "My bosses don't tell me any more than they need me to know."

   "Interesting policy." Kate sweeps up the collection of stakes, tucking them inside her jacket. "Ever cause you problems?"

   David smiles, all whiskers and perfect teeth. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

   "My dad thought that." Kate checks her pockets one last time. "It got him killed."

   David doesn't blink. "What about Angel?"

   "He never thought that."

   "No, I mean -- did it get him killed?"

   Kate tucks away her gun, zips up her coat. Cold and rainy. Just like the night --

   "Jury's still out."

  
**

  
   "No expense account."

   "Check."

   "No more unlimited minutes."

   "The basic plan really works out a lot better --"

   "No five-star hotels."

   "It's not like we were staying in those every night. Or like it'll break us to splurge once in a while..." Willow breaks off, seeing the expression on Faith's face. "What?"

   "I just --" Faith looks away with another violent exhalation. "I just want to know what the new rules are."

   Willow blinks. "Rules for radishes?"

   "That's all, really. Long time I got used to no rules at all, and I know that's how it really is. Underneath." The Slayer pushes back her hair, blinking at the glare from the bare bulb hanging overhead. "Just want everything to be clear."

   Willow opens her mouth before thinking twice, shuts it again, thoughts racing. Inside she's visualizing a face she's never met, all glasses, spiked hair and stubble; keeps cropping up in Faith's own thoughts, connected somehow with the cop in Washington who interrogated Willow at the accident scene. She doesn't press, doesn't prod or pry. But still she thinks of rental records, ease of tracking, traceability. How to hide from the good, as well as the bad and the ugly.

   "I've never had a job."

   "Huh?" Faith looks back at her. "You're kidding."

   "I wish." Willow's fatalistic shrug matches the magnitude of the dawning realization. "Xander started work almost right after graduation. Apart from filling in for Miss Calendar in computer science -- and that super-software offer my mother _never_ forgave me for turning down, which totally doesn't count -- I haven't worked a day in my life."

   "As a civilian." Faith's smile somewhat eases the bluntness of the distinction. "New Council. How were they payin' the bills?"

   "Whatever Giles could scrape together from the old Council." Willow finds a grin of her own. "Plus Kennedy's trust fund."

   Faith snorts. "Color me surprised."

   "You know," Willow interjects, in an effort to regain control of the conversation. "We're going about this all wrong. We shouldn't be focusing on what we _don't_ have."

   "Won't take long to list what we got." Still, the Slayer doesn't sound overly sarcastic. "That stuff Wes left --"

   "Right." Despite her bias regarding guns, Willow considers the bike more dangerous. Far more likely Faith might insist on taking it out for a spin. "And whatever we left behind in the hotel room in New York. My grandma said she's got plenty of storage until we get a mailing address --"

   "Nothing crucial." Faith's dismissive tone relegates this to the pile marked DISCARD. "So the stuff we brought in the pack -- my sword, and..."

   Willow hefts the three-foot length of wood and polished metal, surprisingly light in her hands. " _This_ not-so-little beauty."

   "Quite the collector's item." For the merest moment there's that flare in the Slayer's eyes at the sight of the Scythe, a covetous hunger that evokes a million One Ring comparisons. Then it's gone, replaced with the usual weary sense of respect. "Gonna be a bitch goin' through customs."

   "I can do the Highlander dimensional squeeze," Willow assures her. "Just like the sword."

   Faith perks up at this possibility. "How about the sawed-off?"

   _Suddenly and unsurprisingly less happy._ This usually being the sort of time Willow brings up the whole fugitive felon angle, the expression on her girlfriend's face might indicate the time is ripe for a different approach. "A sword is standard Slayer weaponry --"

   "Like a rocket launcher?" Faith's irritation is clear.

   "Let's get back to this thing." Willow feels the conversation slipping away again. "I want to know more about how it came to you. And why."

   "So it slices, pokes, and makes Slayers." Faith examines her reflection in the Scythe -- technically, according to Giles, a Lochabar axe. "Any other tricks up her sleeve?"

   "I pretty much exhausted all the possibilities when we were researching it back in Sunnydale." Willow cocks her head, considering. "I might be able to come up with something to try to locate Angel..."

   Faith shakes her head at the obvious hesitance.

   "Probably more trouble than it's worth." The Slayer exhales, giving the weapon a final reluctant once-over. "Pack her up."

   Willow's brow wrinkles in confusion.

   "Return to sender," Faith clarifies. "Get it back to B. Don't care how."

   Willow frowns. "Didn't you --"

   "I wanted it." Faith places deliberate emphasis on the past tense, returning Willow's gaze. "Thought I could use it. Now I...don't think so."

   Willow nods, already considering appropriate shipping methods. Trusted personal courier is probably the way to go. Although that's a much shorter list these days...

   "So." A twinkle returns to Faith's eye. "We're not workin' for the man any more."

   "Or the woman." Willow grins back. "We're independent operators."

   "Rogue demon hunters."

   "Should we have cards? Angel had cards..." Willow trails off as the Slayer's smile disappears.

   "Fat lotta good it did him." Faith's growl is more a mumble. "Ever wonder how close we came in Sunnydale? All of us ending up like Anya? Going out in some grand and futile final gesture?"

   "It wasn't futile." Willow's instinctive retort is followed by a flood of realization. "No, are you kidding? You don't see?"

   Faith frowns. "See what?"

   "Angel took down *Wolfram and Hart*," Willow stresses. "The Los Angeles branch, anyway. They might be pulling out of the region entirely. Or at least heavily scaling back operations --"

   "You really want to investigate Team Angel?"

   Willow turns to find Lorne watching from the couch. His crimson eyes are bright and glistening.

   "Then you should start with the heart."

  
**

  
   Thinking about Dad, in addition to stirring up the expected angst, is only making Kate more aware of how obviously this guy is lying. Maybe not about everything. Probably. But in spite of his perfect pitch, this supposed David's previously flawless presentation ends up falling flat. His ID is certainly useless -- worse than, with no way to authenticate it against something or someone concrete. Nothing more than a way to lull the unwary into a false sense of security.

   As always, it's an issue of resources. The more she focuses on him, the less time and attention there is to spend on real casework. Unless he's in some way part of the case. So while she prefers her enemies at a good distance, Trevor Lockley's only daughter and sole heir has no trouble keeping the unknown, at a minimum, within arm's reach.

   "Kazarkh is a specialist." She needs to refocus this guy, somehow impress upon him what they'll be up against, and how readily it can snuff them out. "But he's put together a pretty diverse team. Lots of different kinds of demons answer to him."

   "What do they get out of it?" David's inquiry seems honest, but his posture screams lazed arrogance, half-draped over the arms of her last surviving easy chair. "Assuming they're not just scared of him. Or joining the gang they think has the best chance of coming out on top."

   "Other than those motivations?" Kate knows she sounds impatient. She doesn't care.

   "I mean, do they get paid in cash? Does this guy have a retirement plan? Or is it just the thrill of the kill? Per diem and all the humans you can eat?" David's eyebrows rise over the rims of his glasses, in that way Kate's sure he thinks is sexy. "Or drink?"

   "When it comes to these things, I don't generally spend a lot of time trying to discern motivation." This time she doesn't allow herself to look away. "Sometimes I have to. And those scare me a lot more."

   David frowns, drumming his fingers on one thigh. Kate remains silent.

   "I'm not a newbie anymore at this point." David swings his legs off the chair, plants both feet on the floor and leans forward, hands together, earnest cranked to the max. "Obviously I'm far from an expert. But you need to start cutting me a little slack."

   For the first time, his tone expresses a not overly hostile impatience. Kate chooses her words carefully. "I think I'm being more than fair --"

   "Bullspit." Even after all her cynicism, his slight smile still disarms her. "You don't trust me. And that's fine. Because I'm going to give you what you want. I'm gonna take this guy down, and get out of your life."

   Kate doesn't blink. David just looks back at her, wearing that stupid tiny grin.

   "How's that for a deal?"

   She looks back at him, tight-lipped. "Mount up."

  
**

  
   "...plenty of celebrities to be seen around the neighborhood. If you're into that sort of thing." The agent plasters on a brave smile, clutching her clipboard. "Any questions?"

   Willow pretends to think on it. "I'm still having a hard time with the price."

   "Oh, I'm sure we'd be willing to negotiate --" The agent hesitates, deciding how much desperation may be to her advantage. "I know my boss is really anxious to unload this place. If you could handle the property taxes -- and I know that's a big chunk of change, but hear me out -- you could own this place for a song."

   Willow doesn't respond, looking about the room. According to Lorne, Angel had continued to make the payments out of his own salary, in order to keep any trace of it off of Wolfram and Hart's books. Dusty, apparently unrented since Team Angel moved everything to the Hyperion, it's still in better shape than Lorne's.

   She tries to picture Cordelia Chase making a home within these walls. The real Cordy, not the thing she apparently met last time. She still can't believe she didn't spot the Beast's influence, Jasmine's presence, even during their brief interaction. Lorne insisted she'd had a lot on her mind, but Willow can't accept that. If she'd only picked up on it, before --

   "Not bad." Faith is cool and casual, giving nothing away. "Think we can have a little alone time before we make any kinda committment?"

   "Certainly." The agent nods, tucking her clipboard under one arm. "I'll just be outside --"

   "You can leave the key."

   The agent falters, taken aback by the undisguised implication. Willow's just glad she's looking the other way. Inappropriate smiles at the wrong moment can ruin everything.

   "I'm not sure --"

   "Discrimination lawsuit." Faith's warning carries a subtle smile. "Don't need long. Won't leave a mess."

   Willow's cheeks burn despite herself. Just once, she'd like to play the bad lieutenant. Any healthy relationship has to maintain a balance of embarrassment.

   "I'm sorry, but I really can't --"

   A crash echoes from the other room.

   "Lock up when you leave." The agent's face drains of blood as she tosses Faith the key, door slamming behind in her haste to make an exit.

   Willow's already heading straight for the other door, flinging it open. An uncertain twinge passes through her tummy at the sight of an empty room. Or maybe it's the revenge of her mochachino breakfast.

   "There." Faith indicates the gaping hole in the center of the window. Glass litters the floor in a likewise perfect circle, as curtains billow and dance in the breeze. The Slayer abruptly growls, massaging her own stomach.

   "Geez, we've gotta get some grub in me. I been livin' on stale jerky and Little Debbies since we got here."

   "One of the eternal questions." Willow edges forward, failing to locate any sign of projectiles. "Is bad food better than no food?"

   "Between crap and starving, I'll take the ten cent mac and cheese and be grateful for it." Faith's distracted tone betrays her intense focus as she stalks up to the window, examining the edges of the hole while holding her hand over her eyes, ready to shield herself from fresh flying glass. "I'm just saying, I don't care how poor we get. Sometimes this girl needs some meat. And I don't mean jerky."

   Willow opens her mouth.

   "Or the other thing," Faith adds.

   "I wasn't --" Willow stops there, unsure if she actually might have been. The uncertain twinge is still there, crawling around like a tapeworm.

   "Sure you were." Faith's chuckle deflects any sting. The Slayer relaxes as she moves to the far side of the window, still holding up one hand. "You gettin' anything?"

   "Tummyache." Willow responds absently, scanning the shards of glass. "You're making me hungry."

   "Sorry."

   "I'm kidding. It's probably guilt." Willow stops in her tracks, head cocked to one side, and then she hears it. A smile spreads across her face. "Guess we know why this place didn't get snapped up for a song."

   "You got something?" The hope is evident in Faith's voice.

   "Hello?" Willow concentrates on not letting her own power run away with the situation. The presence is faint, but a beacon in the night to one such as herself. "Once for yes, two for no. Are you listening?"

   A hollow thud comes from the closet. Willow looks over at Faith, who opens the door. Nothing but hangers and mothballs inside.

   "Are you -- hold on." Willow unslings her shoulder bag, pulling out her laptop. "Sometimes I'm not so smart."

   Faith watches in silence as she brings the machine to life and opens a text editor. Since their encounter in cyberspace, Willow has added a number of homebrew security measures, using strict policy controls to isolate every last bit of code and data.

   She addresses the air, indicating her screen. "I give you permission to enter this window."

   The overhead light flickers as the words leave her mouth. Willow looks down, types out:

   _Hello?_

   The cursor sits unmoving. Unblinking, even.

   "Better than electrocution, but still unsatisfying." Willow frowns, lost in thought, then abruptly springs to life.

   "Could be our ghost hails from an age when men were men and punchcards were nervous." The witch is already sufficiently distracted as to not even smile at her own joke, typing furiously away. A new window opens, displaying a virtual onscreen keyboard.

   "Just add hardware access to the microphone," Willow mumbles. "Can you hear me now? And, link those apps together...same permissions...there we --"

   _& ()(*&*(&*&QWERTYUIOP HELLO WORLD_

   "Go!" Willow's face lights up.

   _HEY!_ The virtual keys onscreen darken as each is pressed, their output appearing in the text editor. The cursor spins briefly, radiating enthusiasm.

   "Now there's something you don't see every day." Faith leans in for a better look, squinting at Willow's custom font.

   _DO YOU KNOW CORDY?_

   "Ouch." Willow bites her lip, pausing to compose her reply. "We did."

   _I KNOW SHE'S GONE._ The cursor flashes before continuing its spastic output. _I SHOULD PROBABLY MOVE ON MYSELF._

   "Why haven't you?"

   Another brief pause. _GUESS I DON'T KNOW HOW. I'M DENNIS, BY THE WAY. NICE TO FINALLY MEET SOME MORE OF HER FRIENDS._

   Willow doesn't disabuse him of the notion.

   "We have a lot of stuff to get done today, but I really want to chat some more." Willow hesitates the slightest of seconds. "Would you like to stay there? For now?"

   _SURE!_ Another pause. _IF THAT DOESN'T SOUND TOO DESPERATE._

   _Not at all._ Willow types this in, adding a stylistic flourish to her final keystrokes. _Talk to you soon._

   The screen dims as she shuts the display, turning to Faith with a grin.

   "Ghost in the machine."

  
**

  
   "I'm telling you, man. You do _not_ want to mess with this guy!"

   "Like you're messing with me?" Kazarkh doesn't bother raising his voice or brandishing his claws. The human sitting on the other side of his desk can't possibly get more intimidated. But past a certain point, these things tend to depreciate in entertainment value.

   "I shouldn't even be here," the man sighs. He mops at his brow with a well-worn sleeve, leaving his stringy, receding hairline in further disarray. "But your man got used to carrying envelopes. Didn't want to exert himself with an actual message he had to remember."

   From behind him, Kazarkh's henchman gives an irritated sigh.

   "What I said was the boss should hear it for himself."

   "And right you were." Kazarkh steeples his claws, scaly elbows perched atop the stacks of paper that adorn his desk. "So with Wolfram and Hart on my plate, maybe you can enlighten me as to why I should care about one human with fake ID?"

   "I didn't --" The stool pigeon pulls his collar open, breathing heavily. Kazarkh appreciates this particular bit of human slang. Pigeons are rumored to spread cancer. They also make pretty good eating.

   "It's fake _because_ it's too perfect," the man insists. "You don't see that level of forgery from anyone who isn't state sponsored!"

   Kazarkh lets the nictating membranes slide over his eyes. Intimidation aside, he enjoys the way it makes most humans flinch. "Meaning?"

   "Big Government." Kazarkh can actually hear the capitalization in the man's wheezed words. "Spook City. I'm just a pencil pusher, and I don't care if you're the president. You go up against these guys? You're _dead_."

   "You're dead either way," Kazarkh observes. "Your only concern should be how much longer you get to live. And of course, there's...quality of life, to consider."

   "What about my job?" The human's voice does that annoying thing where it rises not just in volume but in pitch. "Your only use for me is the information I feed you! Someone like this can do whatever they want to me! Hell, they can just _hide_ whatever they want _from_ me --"

   "Relax." Kazarkh makes it an order. "Just because I'm out for blood doesn't mean it has to be yours. Not today."

   The pigeon sinks back in the chair with a feverish gleam in his eye. Kazarkh ignores him, using every scrap of native intelligence -- below average on the demon curve -- on finding a way to turn this twist to his advantage.

   If nothing else, the spook's position in the pecking order is potential leverage against Lockley. Simple enough to drive a wedge between the meddling PI and her new partner. _When you can't attack the enemy head on, sow dissent among the ranks._

   But far better if he can turn his enemies against each other. Pitting Wolfram and Hart against two humans would distract the firm for less time than it would take to set up such a scheme in the first place. Against the FBI? The CIA? Who knows?

   And more importantly, who cares?

   "Take him back," Kazarkh orders. "In one piece."

   The henchman nods. "Alive?"

   Kazarkh resists a heavy sigh. "Alive."

   He drums his claws on the desk after they leave. Too many street demons still couldn't process anything more long-term than a rip and run. But the problems didn't necessarily stop once you rip someone's head off. No, the real power wasn't to be found in tooth and claw, much as that bareknuckle reality underscored everything else. Nor did it lie in shuffling around little pieces of paper, or even the goods they represented.

   Power was when others did what you wanted.

   He'd managed to get over the panic of sighting an active detachment in the area. And there was still that bitch at the brothel to be dealt with...

   Slowly, Kazarkh begins to chuckle.

   _Talk about killing two birds._

  
**

  
   Rona lowers her sunglasses as they disembark, taking in the view. She knows so much better and yet the first thing she wants to do is breathe deep, get a big old lungful of one hundred percent impure American air. She throws caution to the wind, sniffing until her nostrils burn, her eyes start to tear.

   "Hello, Hell-Ay!"

   "I thought you hated California." Beside her, Vi levels a glare, laboring to keep their luggage aloft.

   Try as she might, Rona can't agree with her junior's assessment. Sure, at first her own opinion of the so-called Golden State could technically be described as hatred. That happens when you first arrive somewhere new fleeing for your life. Getting out of England hadn't been anywhere near as traumatic as leaving home. She was older, wiser, and a Slayer, not to mention yearning to be back on her own turf. Nothing too much against old Blighty; just wasn't for her, though she'd have been more or less happy to stay.

   In one respect, you could say events forced their hand. More precisely, she and Vi had come to a rough consensus that things sucked, at which point Rona decided she wanted out. The argument between them lasted just long enough to attract Dawn's attention, who agonized over the thought of leaving Dana behind but ultimately decided she absolutely had to see Willow. The possibility of slipping out while the other two were engaged in their own verbal sparring occurred to her too late to be an option, and while disappearing with Dawn would likely bring down the wrath of Big Sister, Rona decided she no longer cared. As much.

   _Like you ever?_ And Vi had grinned and given her a high five. High praise coming from a Sunnydale graduate (or so Buffy had named those who made it out alive), especially one who had formerly worshipped the eggshells El Jefe floated over. The redhead was both Dawn's bodyguard and Rona's bee eff eff. Ergo, the three of them stuck together like musketeers.

   "Safehouse is downtown." Vi's luggage wrangling skills have already improved, both suitcases balanced with aplomb atop her slight shoulders. "Abandoned industrial building, south central. Top floor used to be a gym."

   "Great." Dawn slips on her most hideous pair of lime-green sunglasses, affecting the air of a seasoned tourist. "More pummeling to keep me up all night."

   "I choose not to belabor the obvious." Vi's gentle mockery does nothing to conceal her genuine affection for the other girl. Anyone with that kind of history of standing up to Buffy Summers has earned a certain measure of respect.

   "What if it's already occupied?" Rona hates to sound like a wet blanket when it was pretty much all she was known for back in Sunnydale, but these things have to be taken into consideration. "Maybe they look the other way all underground railroad. And maybe they decide they're more loyal to the Council and not so much down with solidarity?"

   Vi nods as her enthusiasm subsides. "Might be easier walking in than out."

   "It usually is," Rona deadpans, grinning when Dawn instinctively joins in. The younger Summers puts one hand to her mouth, covering a giggle, and Vi shakes her head.

   "I went over the wall for this?" The redhead leads the way as they stride down the tarmac. Their plane might have been private, but they'd landed at a public terminal in the hopes that their surroundings would keep the Council from making any overt moves.

   "Just be glad someone else was willing to help out." Rona levels a serious look at her technical subordinate. "You know what she'll do if --"

   "She won't hear it from me," Vi assures her. "And Dawn doesn't even know --"

   "I can guess." Dawn's sniff of aloofness falls just shy of actual offense. "Doesn't mean I'm stupid enough to say it out loud. Or write it down. Or type it in --"

   "Look sharp," Rona interjects. "Checkpoint Charlie, comin' up."

   Vi snorts. "Do I have to report you to the Ranger Hall of Shame?"

   "Like you're any less of a tenderfoot?"

   "Hey, at least I have _relatives_ in the service."

   "Me too. My uncle Philippe was in the Navy."

   "Oh, don't even --"

   "Ladies?" The guard at the gate offers the blandest of smiles. "Routine ID check. If you don't mind."

   Rona hands it over without protest, the others already following suit. She tries not to tap her foot as the man inspects them and their cards, fingers shuffling them from one hand to another as though checking them off some mental list. When the third card arrives to join the rest he will pause, hand them back with a nod and wave them through with another disinterested smile. Move along. Nothing to see...

   "Could you remove your sunglasses, miss -- thank y--"

   The guard's mouth unhinges as they stare back in dismay.

   "Where..." His jaw slowly works to find the words, eyes losing all hint of focus. "Where are you?"

  
**

This entry was originally posted at <http://frogfarm.dreamwidth.org/125943.html>. Speak your piece there using OpenID or whatever.


	3. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box" (Act 2)

_  
**Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box" (Act 2)**   
_   


>   
> _Hail, hail  
>  The gang's all here..._   
> 

**(** [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/124399.html#cutid1) **)**  
 **(** [Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/127443.html) **)**

  
Dawn Summers learned many things during her fifteenth year, from her actual age to what it felt like to kiss a boy, for real. But enough time has passed that she can almost forget how the truly bad parts started. She saw crazy people. And they saw her, as she truly was: A being of pure and luminous energy who had existed for aeons. Also, green.

But this guy wasn't crazy a minute ago. And if anything -- judging by his reaction -- she seems to have vanished from his sight.

All this goes through her mind in the time it takes Vi's nails to dig into her palm, the Slayer's grip responding to her own unconscious, panicky squeeze. Dawn clears her throat, unsure of what might emerge if she attempts actual speech.

"Excuse me?" Rona's interjection manages to sound bored. "I know we're all that, but -- you think we can have those back sometime?"

Dawn remains frozen in place, sunglasses still clutched in her other hand. The numb stare of the guard shifts downward, stopping on Rona's outstretched hand. The Slayer's fingers give an impatient wiggle.

"Vacation don't last forever, baby."

Petrified, Dawn watches as all three cards are handed back over. The guard's look of consternation is almost comical in its perplexity as Vi's hand, heavy on her arm, forces her into a quick march away from the terminal. On her other side Rona flanks close, eyes sweeping their surroundings as the main doors loom dead ahead. Then they're through and outside, and it's not until they're in a cab and moving away that Dawn realizes somewhere between the guard and the door she'd lost her new sunglasses. Cheap plastic, but still.

"That was weird," Vi says.

"You think?" Rona's irritation is outweighed by worry, as well as actual concern. "You carrying anything?"

"No rings, no trinkets, no artifacts. Not so much as a pendant. I'm just glad you guys see me." Dawn glances from side to side, abruptly unsure. "You do, right? See me?"

Vi reaches over to give her a hug.

Rona shakes her head, mystified. "Let's just get to the safehouse."

"I shouldn't have come," Dawn mumbles. "If something happens because of me --"

"You're the only one qualified to do magic." Vi punctuates her hushed utterance with another hug. "Me and sister, we just punch things."

"And decapitate," Rona chimes in, a gleam in her eye.

"Exterminate." Vi returns the fist bump.

Dawn stares out the window, silent.

  
**

  
"So Phantom Dennis came along for the ride." Lorne peers at the closed laptop, shaking his head in marvelment. "Guess I'm not the only one who stuck around after his expiration date."

"You're needlessly needling yourself." Willow looks to her girlfriend for affirmation. "Isn't he looking ten times better?"

"At least." Faith spares the Host a quick glance before returning to rummaging through the closet. "You did say you put it in here before we left, right?"

"Left right," Willow agrees. "Up on the shelf."

"Got it." The Slayer emerges with the Scythe, admiring it for a moment before setting it on the table before Willow, nodding again at Lorne. "Yeah. Won't be struttin' down any runways, but at least you look like you give a damn."

"A little hot water goes a long way." Lorne looks down, taking in his ill-fitting but fresh laundered T-shirt and sweatpants. The demon's hair is likewise newly washed, slightly tousled and untrimmed. "Although I had to wear boots in the shower to avoid the fungal forest. Either way, I was crushing civilizations between my toes."

"Assuming you're looking for something not so high on the scale of unseemly grotesque --" Willow indicates the Scythe. "I'm about to port this, but I need a few minutes to warm up, _not really but it's safer that way._ "

"I'm impressed." Lorne looks it. "I could hear the scare quotes."

"And it'll be even more safe," Willow continues, "if you and Faith can help out."

"I am once again more suspicious than intrigued." The curiosity in Lorne's voice belies his words. "And how exactly do we non-sorcerous supremes lend a hand?"

Willow looks completely innocent. "Just meditate with me."

"The last time I got magically involved, everyone else in the room regressed to their teenage selves." Lorne takes a seat at the table. "You figure if we think really hard, maybe we can stop this rain?"

"My powers tend more toward the causing of." Willow grimaces. "Or so some say."

"Easy for you to say." Lorne sends a pointed look at Faith. "I'm not going unless everyone's on the bus."

"You sure you want my negative vibes?" The Slayer's dubious expression is more resignation. After a year of living together -- Faith usually says _shacking up_ \-- they both know the drill.

"You know it's good for you, too." Willow leaves it at that, hoping her girlfriend will do the same.

"So's broccoli," Faith retorts.

"Objection," Lorne interjects, raising one index finger for emphasis. "Let there be no dissing of the greens."

"Guys." Willow softens the edge in her voice. "If you don't want to, don't worry about it. But I'd like to get this back to Buffy ay-sap."

"I'm surprised the phone hasn't been ringin' off the hook." Faith gives her a calculating sidelong glance.

"If you keep talking, we have to hold hands." Willow smiles inside at the lack of response. "Okay, folks. I know it's not the easiest thing after all we've been through...but try to relax."

She doesn't usually have to close her eyes, only doing so out of respect for the others. While a year's worth of occasional training might have improved the Slayer's overall mood, meditation in general is something Faith sees for herself purely as a relaxation technique, insisting that Willow derived far greater benefit from the practice. Certainly that was still the case. But it didn't have to be this way...

The sound of their breath mingles with rain on the roof as power flows from her core, down through her fingers. Willow allows it to slowly gather, resisting the urge to fling it unchecked. Most spells used artifacts as mere resonators or focal points, but both occasions she had tapped into the Scythe's power reminded her of those moments when the magics used her. The presence within her during the ensoulment spell in the hospital, her head throbbing with pain and power, the rush of primal force as she and the others joined together to summon the First Slayer. Do as it will, not her own. For one second there is the half-heard sound of steel cleaving the air; a dizzying moment of memory, as hands grip the ancient wood of the haft.

As politely as possible, Willow cries:

" _Return to the hand that should wield thee!_ "

A crack of thunder shakes the room, rattling the walls and light fixture overhead.

"You didn't tell me you were going to make it rain!" Lorne lowers his voice, sounding anxious. "Can I look yet? Unless you're doing lightning for an encore."

"I think you're good." Willow opens her eyes, confirming the weapon's absence from its former location.

"Uh-huh."

Faith's dry tone makes her look up. Willow feels her face crumple as she takes in the Slayer, wearing a deadpan expression, holding up the Scythe.

"Maybe I should rephrase that." Willow gnaws at her lower lip.

"I swear I've been here before," Lorne mumbles. "It's always something. It starts so little, you think _oh, quick and easy, I'll do a spell. What could possibly go wrong?_ "

She knows this isn't directed at her. Still, Willow has to bite back her instinctive response.

"I think I've got it. Seriously." At her nod, the others bow their heads despite their skepticism. Willow breathes deep, rising to the challenge of two puzzles in one day.

" _Return to the hand that found thee!_ "

This time the thunder leaves their ears ringing, the light fixture plummeting from the ceiling, crashing onto the table. As their hearing returns, the first thing she can make out is what sounds like plaster sifting down through the walls.

"Will?"

Again, Faith's voice tells her exactly what she's going to see. She looks anyway.

"This just became more ominous than expected."

"Don't wanna go back, do ya?" Faith holds up the Scythe, observing the sly grin of her reflection in the shiny surface. "Don't blame ya."

"Ominous and flustrating." Willow sinks back in the chair, lost in furious thought. "No. Even with the Slayer activation spell, I never got the sense of any kind of personality. It's not like the Sorting Hat. Just...this powerful presence."

"I say, let sleeping giants lie." Lorne rises from the table with an air of relief. "Spot of tea, anyone?"

"Some of that mint." Faith glances over at Willow, now slumped forward, her chin in both hands, "And a double ginseng for Sylvia Plath."

Willow looks up, momentarily surprised out of depression. "Prison?"

"Swear that library was tryin' to up the suicide rate." Faith walks over to the closet, stashing the Scythe once more on the shelf. Willow doesn't find herself surprised. Then again, she ought more often give her girlfriend the benefit of doubt.

"Change of heart?" Willow manages a smile. "Or just saving me from myself?"

"Later for that," Faith admonishes. "Do something else. It'll come. No sweat."

"Already less perspiry. Out of sight, out of mind." Willow mulls over possibilities, abruptly reaching down for the laptop and cracking it open. "Dennis, you still there?"

 _Present!_

"I see you found the shift key." Willow smiles before turning serious. "I'm going to section off some more space. Give you room to grow, before you need it."

 _I barely know what to do with what I've got._ The cursor hesitates. _And that sounded horribly unmanly, didn't it._

"You'll figure it out." Willow attacks the keys with a vengeance. "Here's some more apps to get started with...web browser...sound and video, if you get really bored --"

"Thought you already did the mike?" Faith asks.

"This is for his end," Willow explains. "With enough practice, he should be able to pull a Max Headroom. Generate himself an avatar, chat face to face real time."

"So he can actually hear us?" Lorne stares at the screen as he hands Faith her mug.

 _I always could._ The cursor pauses, issuing an audible bell before continuing. _Coming in here didn't make me deaf._

"A fair riposte." Lorne's fascination is obvious. "You know who would get a real kick out of this? David."

Faith stiffens. "Who?"

"You didn't know him," Lorne absently replies, still focused on the letters onscreen. "Early client of Angel's. Sort of what you might call a technomage. If mage meant geek. And talk about wealthy -- this fellow was on his way to putting Bill Gates out with only a cardboard box for a sarong."

 _I remember!_ the cursor spits, dancing with excitement. _Around the same time that crazy woman_

Lorne hovers expectantly, waiting for more. Willow can feel a growing sinking feeling at the look in Faith's eyes as the cursor continues to spin, frozen in place.

Her eye falls on the built-in webcam, a slight spherical indentation just above the display. The single bright red LED is blinking away, so rapidly as to be a blur, and as the Slayer opens her mouth both camera and main screen go dead. Fade to black.

"Dammit," Faith mutters.

"Hibernation mode." Willow shakes her head, chastened. "I can't believe I didn't remember --"

"Not your fault." But Faith's assurance rings hollow.

"We can fill him in later on the whole you not being evil. Or let him make up his own mind." Willow slaps the laptop shut with more force than usual, turning to Lorne. "This geeky yet incredibly wealthy client. David. Did he have a last name?"

"Nabbit."

"You're sure?" Willow hesitates. "You were pretty pickled when we found you."

"Honey, the guy's photo is in half the print on the newsstands. And after all my time as Wolfram and Hart's walking rolodex, I am elephantine to the maximum." Lorne chuckles in recollection. "Especially regarding peccadilloes of the rich and famous."

"Well, then." Willow stands, noticing with some satisfaction that Faith joins her without a word. "Let's go meet Mister David Nabbit."

The Slayer appears skeptical. "Without an appointment?"

"Friends of Cordy. See if it gets us in the door. Beyond that -- play it by ear." Willow picks up her laptop, looking braver by far than she feels. "Off to see the wizard?"

"Whippoorwillow," Lorne sighs, "you have _no_ idea."

  
**

  
"When I was a detective, you know what I hated most?"

David glances over. They've been parked in her shitbeaterbox going on six hours, setting up on the top floor of a parking garage across from the swank high-rise that Kate has designated the current target. More than that, she won't say. In fact, she hasn't said much of anything going on three hours.

"I'm going to say the stifling, uncaring bureaucracy that rewards mediocrity, conformity and political gamesmanship." He sips his coffee, grimacing at the bitter chill. "Or the cops who couldn't see past your chest."

She doesn't react, but he wasn't expecting her to. Quite the poker face she has. Most of the time.

"Watching and waiting." Kate pronounces the words like a literal life sentence. "Investigation without any action? No problem. Mindless paperwork, I can deal. But sitting around with my thumb up, getting older on someone else's timetable --"

"You got a tap on him?"

Kate swivels upon him with that laser-sharp gaze. "Without a warrant?"

David adopts a puzzled look. "Why do you say that?"

She shakes her head, unaccepting of his innocence. "I don't know much about you, but it's clear you don't have a lot of patience."

"Says she who cannot abide the watch and wait." David manages not to sound too smartass. He thinks she might hit him anyway. Fortunately, her self-control remains better than his.

"I still have some friends in the department." She's gone back to watching the building, right hand resting casually just inside her jacket. "But, borrowing equipment -- that's not the kind of favor they're good for, Especially hardware that needs a court order to be anything more than a paperweight."

"You know better than that," he chides. "Right equipment in the right place. That's all you need."

"Is that what she said?"

David suppresses a cough, admiring her composure.

"Those Wolfram and Hart folks know the score." He keeps his tone conversational, watching for imminent explosion. "Bet you they could tool us up."

He gets the glare, but when she speaks there's not even a hint of ice. More like disappointment.

"Whose place are we watching?"

"Kazarkh's," he responds, on automatic.

"Why?" She makes it a challenge. "What makes him so interesting?"

"You said he might be bringing in girls --"

"That's my line," she interrupts. Now he gets the glare. "Why should _you_ be interested?"

David pretends to think. "Because he's out for my head?"

"Unless you're dead set on living without it." Back on the door, like he's not even here. Girl is focused.

"I'm just saying," David ventures. "We might be able to shave some time off this detail you despise so much and do something more enjoyable. Maybe celebrate with a drink before I gracefully bow out of your business."

"You're the man in black." Kate doesn't spare him a glance. "Why don't you pull a few strings?"

"You do know we're not on TV?" David manages not to return her accusing tone. "You have no idea how much red tape is tying up those strings. How much it costs every time I cash in a favor."

"I'm carrying you in the hope you can live up to your word and help take this guy out." Kate squints at the door, shaking her head. "Not seeing much in the way of help so far."

"You're not looking in the right place."

She glances over, lip curling in a derisive sneer.

"This is 2004. Who doesn't have an iPod -- wait, is that the phone? The top secret one they swear they aren't --"

"Sure it's a phone." David grins, spinning the tuner wheel. "And a floor wax. And a dessert topping..."

"God, I need new contacts." Kate frowns and squints at the display, eyes widening in realization.

"Yes, this is live footage. From Kazarkh's security network." For once, David avoids even the faintest hint of smugness. "Does that help?"

Her face is pale as her finger stabs the air, trembling at the screen.

When he looks, the two unmoving girls are being dragged off camera.

  
**

  
Faith's expecting far more in the way of hurdles and hoops. Maybe even an attempt at a bum's rush. But it turns out the name Cordelia Chase, along with an impromptu magickal demonstration, gets her and Willow inside the inner sanctum in almost no time flat. Nabbit's functionaries, apologizing profusely for their skepticism, are shooed away by their emperor-employer, who shuts the door on them with the sort of profound relief only found in the genetically antisocial.

She doesn't yet know what to make of the man himself, other than the unkind notion that his last name would more appropriately start with an R. Little on the doughy side. At least he didn't flinch when Willow had to prove her powers. Unlike his employees.

"I am so sorry about that." Mister Pillsbury gestures for them to sit down. Faith sinks into the huge leather chair, glancing about. The single room office is bigger than Lorne's apartment, with enough oak paneling to have decimated whole forests.

"No, I understand." Willow's still taking point, smoothing things out. The witch sits in her own chair with her legs crossed, skirt showing them to full advantage, looking utterly at ease. "Not that we _look_ like lawyers, but --"

"They've been harassing us ever since _it_ happened. Whatever it was that night in the alley." Nabbit looks dejected, then curious. "May I see? You showed my secretary, but --"

"Oh, sure." Willow fishes in her laptop bag for her wallet, locating the expired student ID card. UC Sunnydale might have been swallowed up by the mouth of Hell, along with the rest of the town, but that only makes this particular bit of plastic more valuable in some eyes. Good as gold.

"Holy -- Rosenberg?" Nabbit looks up from the card with new respect. "I tried to hire you!"

"No kidding!" Willow bursts out laughing as she leans forward. "Like, five years ago? Before I graduated?"

"Ninety-nine. We'd just gone global."

"So you were the Mister Mysterious behind that special booth!"

"When I saw the work you submitted, I told human resources it would be a criminal offense to let you get away." Nabbit shakes his head. "They came back from the job fair practically wearing hair shirts."

"You have no idea how tempting it was." Willow smooths her skirt, maintaining perfect poise. "But I got another offer I couldn't refuse."

Faith gnaws the inside of her cheek. Fighting demons for no pay in a one-Starbucks suburb? Having the love of your life gunned down by some two-bit poseur? Living on the run out of every fleabag motel from here to Kokomo, cut off from everyone you thought you could count on to watch your back?

Some offer.

With a pang -- more a jolt, followed by pang -- it occurs to her that this is what Willow deserves. An office so rich you can smell it in the air, the leather, the fresh roasted coffee. Hell, it ought to be her behind that mile-wide desk. Handing out orders, sitting back and raking in billions without lifting so much as a magically gesturing finger. No sweat of the brow for little miss Megamind.

"Faith didn't know her as well as the rest of us."

With a start, the Slayer realizes the conversation has continued to drift.

"She was the richest, most popular girl in town. And she never let anyone forget it. Until she wasn't." Willow looks down at her twiddling thumbs as if surprised by their idle motion. "I know she went through a lot of changes...even before she came here. Kind of made me wish I'd gotten to know her better."

"I know what you mean," Nabbit sighs. "I really regret losing touch with them. Every so often I'd think of calling, and...thought I was thinking better of it. Knowing my limitations. Not getting in the way, you know?"

Willow nods in obvious sympathy.

"Then out of the blue, Angel called me up last year. Wanted to arrange a meeting. Very hush-hush." Nabbit rises from his chair, hands behind his back as he wanders out from behind the desk in an aimless, random trail. Willow cranes her neck, trying to follow before abandoning the attempt.

"He wouldn't talk at all about what happened." The tension is evident in Nabbit's voice. "I mean, my first vacation in forever -- weeks on my new private island, completely cut off from the world. It was so liberating, all kinds of fresh ideas I'm getting. Then I come back to LA, and everyone's walking around like a bunch of zombies! Getting in fights, bursting into tears..."

"Jasmine," Willow mutters. Nabbit appears not to notice.

"He wanted me to take over the hospital bills." The software mogul returns to his desk, sitting on the edge as he stares at the abstract painting adorning the wall. "Didn't want his bosses holding it over him. Of course I said yes -- even visited, a couple times. But she never woke up."

Faith remains silent, unsure if it's out of respect or sheer lack of words.

"He asked me to bury her. So Wolfram and Hart wouldn't be the ones to do it." Nabbit dabs at his eyes, suspiciously bright. "I had her cremated."

"Good." Willow sounds more forceful than Faith would have expected. The Slayer glances over to find her girlfriend going all stiff upper. "I know how much seer's eyes go for. Even dead."

"No way was I letting her get dug up and sold for parts." Nabbit is equally grim and determined, with a surprising amount of backbone.

"I wish I could tell you what happened to the rest of them." Willow's apology carries a hint of her own frustration. "We're still trying to figure that out. But we're almost positive Wesley is dead --"

"Oh." Nabbit slumps further.

"And Lorne's okay," Willow hastily reassures him.

Nabbit's brow furrows. "Who's -- wait, _the_ Lorne? Had the huge Vegas act? Ran the best demon nightclubs in the city?"

"I...think so." Willow casts a helpless glance at Faith, who shrugs. "I guess you guys might have a lot to talk about?"

"Sure!" Nabbit seems to shrink in on himself. "I mean, if you can introduce us."

The nervous hesitation reminds Faith of someone. With a bitter twist, she realizes it's Xander Harris, back when they first met. Right down to the growing urge to throw him down on the desk and start choking him out.

"I can ask." Willow spreads her hands. "He's going through a rough time right now."

"I'd love to help if I can." David -- or so Faith is starting to think of him -- sounds eager at the prospect. "You guys too. Just say the word!"

Willow frowns. "Isn't this a little premature?"

"Hey, I'm a businessman. I didn't get here being completely naive." David chuckles, rounded cheeks dimpling. "But I think I'd trust you to turn in clean sheets if you were on an expense account."

"That's very generous." Willow looks slightly taken aback. "I -- we'd need some time to --"

"Or call it a gift, straight up. Make a list, ten things you need most. No strings attached. No need to report back -- if you want, take it and go. With my compliments." David spreads his own hands. "I just want to help."

"No strings attached," Faith repeats.

"I'm serious." Dude sounds like it, at least. "Weapons, vehicles, clothes --"

The Slayer raises an eyebrow. "You seein' us in spandex?"

"Uh..." A blush creeps up David's neck as he loosens his collar. "No?"

"I am --" Willow coughs. "Uh -- can."

"I'm no Gandalf," David continues hastily. "Or Batman. But I can, uh, fund Batman. And Gandalf."

"And all the kings under the mountain, from what I've heard." Willow actually looks like she's considering it. "Aren't you guys working on the next generation Macbook competition? Cause this baby's served me well, but she _is_ getting a little long in the tooth --"

"No."

Willow looks over, shocked, as Faith realizes she's spoken aloud. Unseen by any of them, the hibernate light on Willow's laptop slowly blinks.

"We just got off the tit, and you want to hop on board with the first sugar daddy comes along with some shiny toy?" Faith shakes her head. "There's always a string."

"I may have given the wrong impression." David's flush deepens further, to a light tomato. "Terribly sorry. My social circle is more, uh, point. No daddy implied. Or mommy."

"It's okay," Willow smoothly interjects. The witch casts a quick glance at Faith in silent warning. "Maybe I could do some work as an independent consultant --"

Willow abruptly breaks off. Faith would interrupt, but she knows all too well the look of spinning gears. She contemplates the sweat on Nabbit's forehead, wondering just how much more might be going on under the hood.

"Actually there is something. Someone." Willow straightens in her chair, more formal. "An old teacher of mine. He's back home in the UK, helping set up a new school, and...he could really use a retirement fund."

"Easy as meat pie," David smiles. "My overseas investment advisor is headquartered in London. He already wonders why I'm financing a homeless shelter -- this'll give him something else to wonder about."

"In that case," Faith interjects, "I got a request."

Willow looks as surprised as the Slayer herself feels.

"Not just Giles." Faith rushes on, claiming the initiative before she can lose her nerve. "Whole Council could use a cash injection. That trust fund ain't gonna last forever."

"Are you sure?" Willow's glance is surprised and confused. "Not that I'm in any way protesting this decision, but...you'd help Buffy? After all this?"

"B ain't even on my mind." Faith stares her girlfriend down, daring the slightest doubt or disagreement. "Man wants to help. I say stand aside and let him through."

"Just give me a list of names." David stands and stretches with an elaborate yawn. "Hey, you guys wouldn't want to do lunch, would you?"

"We would," says Willow, before Faith can protest. "I mean, it seems kind of rude not to let you buy us _something_ \--"

"Exactly," David grins.

"But we're still doing some investigative work." Willow fishes a pen from her bag. "I don't know how long we'll be in town, but if you give me your email --"

"You'd better. My handwriting's notorious for being atrocious. Uh, let's make you a custom address." David risks a smile in Faith's direction. "How about... _justagigolo_ , at nabbitsoft dot-com?"

An involuntary snort escapes the Slayer. Guy might have more brass than she bargained for.

"And forgive my asking, but -- do you play D&D? Because it would be great to have you sit in on a session." Of course he's talking to Will again, Faith off to the side, forgotten. "I still make room for one a month. Sometimes it's my only social interaction."

 _Demented and sad, but social._ For a moment, Faith wonders if she actually said it.

"Strictly table top. Good old pen and paper." Nabbit chuckles. "Although larping was fun. Cheaper than demon hookers --"

Willow blinks. "Pardon who?"

"Nothing." Nabbit hastily covers his mouth and fakes a cough, turning deep crimson. "Tragic error. Reckless youth --"

"You sly stud." Faith shakes her head in admiration, realizing. "First time Angel came to visit, he couldn't stop talkin' you up. Never mentioned your name, of course. Total professional. Very discreet."

Nabbit nods glumly.

"But hey," Faith smiles. "If the shoe fits..."

"Oh geez." Nabbit gives her a forlorn, piteous look. "That part of my life is over, I swear. If this gets out --"

"It won't," Willow assures him, again with a stern glance at Faith.

"It won't," Faith agrees. "As long as you tell me how to find this place."

"What?" Willow stammers.

"We're investigating the underworld." Faith returns the stare with a placid gaze. "Can you think of a better place to start?"

"Here." David scribbles something on a piece of paper, handing it over with a dejected air.

"Notice you didn't have to look it up," Faith observes.

"Noontime traffic's a real bear." Nabbit brushes nonexistent lint from his pants as he stands, striding across the carpet with surprising grace and quickness. "Let me at least get you a ride. Uh -- driver."

Faith simmers in her chair, waiting for the door to shut.

"I can't believe you sometimes," Willow hisses.

 _Right on schedule._ "Admit it, Red. You're straight for his brain!"

"What?" Willow repeats, stuttering again as her outrage grows. "No! N-no, I'm gay! Gay for you!"

"And that picture of Stephen Hawking next to --"

Willow pointedly looks away, nose in the air. "Some things transcend boundaries."

  
**

  
"Here's good." Rona hoists her bag over her shoulder, ruffling through the collection of bills. "Keep the change."

" _Oye_." The driver's headshake is accompanied by a mournful click of tongue and teeth. "This is not a good neighborhood for jogging. Even in the daylight."

"Understood." Rona notices he doesn't say _daytime_. The cab pulls away, and she turns to the rest of her ragtag group.

"Come on, girls. Time to get steppin'."

"Who died and made you full metal straightjacket?" Dawn grumbles. "Notice I didn't say jack--"

"I let you come along," Rona slowly enunciates, "because I thought you'd be an asset to the team. More importantly, because I didn't think you deserved to be stuck there."

"Sorry." Dawns sighs, gazing at the rolling clouds overhead. "But if it starts raining before we get to the safehouse, I guarantee you I will continue to sulk. And suffer in silence."

"Easy for you to say." Vi spits out the final syllable, tangled and twisted between her lips. "See -- dammit -- now you've got me doing it."

"Maybe another one of my inexplicable powers." Dawn manages a smile. "Go on. I can keep up."

"I got your back." Vi grins back as Rona shifts her feet, impatient to move. "You're like the egg yolk."

"Are you saying I'm fat?"

"You're in the middle, so you're protected. From all the, uh, badness of the outside world." Vi hangs her head. "And that was probably a better imitation of your sister than I realized."

"Award winning." Dawn nods, falling in beside Rona as they set off down the block. "I can almost forget I'm older than you."

Rona barely listens to them chattering away, too busy scanning the buildings and surrounding streets for the slightest hint of anything out of the ordinary. Just because the sun's still in the sky is no excuse to get sloppy. _Easy for you to say._

She doesn't like to think about how many times she's considered ditching the others since they left England. Only once; maybe twice. The Council might not have promoted her into any real responsibility -- yet -- but she was savvy enough to see the writing on the wall. After that, it was only a matter of time.

"And nothing like that ever happened before?" Vi asks.

"Not since the whole dimensional closing. The door I was supposed to open." Dawn is under obvious strain, but sounds like she's holding up.

"And in all your researching, with all that book learning -- you never did any spells yourself?"

Dawn makes some kind of sound that cuts short, clearing her throat. "Willow always did the heavy lifting."

Vi doesn't respond.

"I know they wouldn't have a problem teaching me," Dawn continues, slightly bitter. "Not if --"

"Go on," Vi prompts.

"Not if Tara was still around."

Rona gives thanks as the two lapse into silence, saving her the effort of tuning them out. A pickup basketball game in the street ahead has her attention, and she concentrates on seeing without looking, maintaining external awareness.

"Ey, girl! You want some of this?"

"Not from you." Rona doesn't even glance as they pass by, ignoring the hoots and jeers of her would-be Romeo's teammates excoriating him for his failure.

"Um --" Vi taps her on the shoulder. "I think he was trying to sell us drugs."

"I think he was talking to you," Dawn mutters.

"Not the only one standing out in the crowd here," Vi returns. "In case you hadn't noticed? We're not in Sunnydale anymore."

"Ladies?" Rona doesn't raise her voice. The other two fall silent, slightly quickening their pace to keep up.

One of the players nods to another sitting on the stoop. Without moving from the spot, the second young man pulls a hand mirror from his pocket, directing a quick flash of sunlight toward a nearby rooftop as the girls disappear around the corner.

Rona files this away, but figures Vi had it right. For a second she's back in Woodlawn, watching the corner boys give the nod to a Blackstone at the slightest whiff of the law. Crows on the wire.

Their destination is easily spotted, a crumbling edifice encircled in barbed wire fence, occupying half a block in the center of an asphalt and concrete desert overgrown with weeds. Unlike most of the other buildings, this one has no broken windows; every single one of them boarded over, enormous beams of timber behind thick metal meshwork.

"A mighty fortress is our safehouse," Dawn murmurs.

Vi returns this with a silent fistbump.

"Keep walking," Rona instructs. "Don't even look."

"We're going round the other side?" Vi lowers her voice. "Of course we are, Violet. Don't state the obvious or anything. That would totally ruin the moment."

Rona can't believe she hadn't stopped to think about it before now, but the possibility occurs to her now that the building might be occupied, and not necessarily by friendly forces. Squatters at best. Crackheads, maybe. She falls back alongside the others, gaining Vi's attention.

"I think one of us should go in first. Scout the place out."

"As a plan, I don't like that." Vi is turning paler than ever under the mild sunburn. "First, splitting up bad. And -- no offense, Dawn -- but there is no safe option here."

"Face your fears, young Jedi." Rona cringes. "And remind me to kill Andrew."

"Or instead of working hard..." Dawn points across the street into the alley. "We could work smart."

Unsurprisingly, the grate turns out to be locked. Vi is more than ready to pit Slayer strength against it, with or without Rona's assistance, but it turns out the younger Summers carries a custom set of ceramic picks.

"Just like Spike taught me," Dawn grins. "He said I had magic fingers. Uh, and then he told me never to tell anyone he said that or Buffy would find out."

"And he'd be another dead white male." Rona gives her a grim smile, extending a hand. In moments they're descending into darkness, pulling the grate into place behind them.

"So if the building's that way," Vi muses. "We take this tunnel..."

"I'm going first." Rona does just that, squinting as her eyes adjust to the lack of light. "Might be dangerous."

"Maybe we should all be careful." The sarcastic edge in Dawn's voice is about as well concealed as the trip wire that blocks their path. Rona steps left, skirting the thin bit of string.

"Girl, I'll have you know. I am like a panth--"

The click of metal sets her off, triggering her own reflexes and the pressure plate under her feet. Rona catapults backward, pulling the others out of the way as a shower of sparks erupts from the floor, sending a volcano of flame toward the ceiling in a sheet that blankets the tunnel entrance before disappearing.

Vi points where she stepped. "Do you have eight more lives?"

"Oh, that's nothing." Dawn gives Vi a reassuring shoulder pat. "Buffy once had to dodge circular saws."

Nobody says another word as they creep down the hall on hyperalert. But no more hidden traps are sprung, the corridor ending without incident at an unmarked steel door.

Rona nods at the knob. "You feel lucky?"

"Luck, as they say, has nothing to do with it." Dawn makes a show of quietly cracking her knuckles. "Stand back."

Again Rona takes point, braced for ambush. But the door merely opens into a utility closet. She's ready to swear when Vi grabs her hand and points up, indicating a trapdoor in the corner of the ceiling.

"Your turn to go first," Rona whispers. "This time, I got her back."

"Oh, baby." Dawn's sarcasm is more muted.

Rona knows there's no way they can be this far below the surface. Still, the climb up the ladder seems to stretch out for eternity. She grips the cold metal rungs, feeling cold rust flake off in her hands as she tries to anticipate nothing and everything; wishing for more of a plan than flying by the seat of her pants.

Above her Dawn pauses, then taps her on the shoulder with one sneaker. Rona strains her ears, clinging to the ladder, waiting for the signal to proceed.

A blinding light fills the tunnel shaft. Vi's sudden squeak of terror forces new energy into leaden limbs, galvanizing Rona into pushing Dawn ahead of her...

Their heads poke out from the floor. And Rona can't begin to count the brothers with crossbows.

All aimed at them.

  
**

  
"Thanks for seeing us on short notice." Faith takes a seat before the desk, admiring the turn of the century workmanship. "Without an appointment."

"You come with impeccable credentials." Madame Dorion's eyes glitter across the wooden expanse -- far less acreage than Nabbit's, but no less impressive. Maybe more so, for those who believe size doesn't matter.

"You mean recommendations," Faith points out. "From David the demon chaser."

"Names are not important here." Dorion waves this away, examining them with frank interest. "We ask only a fair exchange. Value for value."

Willow fidgets in her chair, adjusting her skirt.

"Meaning?" Faith doesn't bother with an eyebrow.

"Quid pro quo." Dorion smiles.

"From the Latin," Faith observes, "for _no free lunch_."

"You want information." Though Dorion doesn't lift so much as a pinky, in an instant a scantily clad maid is at her side, pouring tea with studied grace. The madame lifts cup to lip with an appreciative nod, and the servant vanishes as quickly as she appeared.

"Temporal folding." Willow's first words since they entered the nondescript building are delivered in a precise monotone. Dorion acknowledges the observation with a polite nod.

The redhead's gaze sharpens. "Is she a seer?"

"After a fashion." Dorion's bracelets jingle as she sips her tea. "But even prophecy has its limits. And her ability does not extend so far as to shield us from a harmful outcome."

"Who's sweatin' you?" Faith leans forward, retaking the lead. "Cops?"

"Quite the opposite." For the first time, the madame appears slightly less than at her ease. "At this point I must state that my position as representative of _oh-bo-sahn_ \-- that's Occult Business Owners Standing Against Nihilism --"

"Nice," Willow comments. "So you're like the Elks?"

"Fewer invocations to the laughing gods. While as representative I must remain strictly neutral --" Dorion takes a breath. "I am asking, off the record, for protection. In your official capacity as the Slayer."

Faith keeps the mask from slipping, but she's just a bit chagrined. Probably made her right from jump street.

"Our mutual friend," Dorion says, as if reading her thoughts, "saw fit to inform me of your profession. You'll find I'm not without sympathy. One of my girls is a former Potential."

Willow's getting that stricken look again. Faith intervenes before she can spoil the party. "What do you need protection from?"

"Not me," Dorion clarifies. "My girls."

"Lookin' out for the working woman?" Faith's ironclad cynicism prevents her from taking this too much at face value, but she lets it slide. "Think the porcupine out there can take care of herself. Wouldn't want to be the john that tried to beat on her."

"You misunderstand --"

"Then quit screwing around," Faith snaps, "and get to the point. Who's sendin' fish heads in the paper?"

"A minor demon." Dorion rises from her chair, the elegant gown trailing behind her. "In the wake of Angel's -- corporate restructuring..."

"Brought down the whole damn structure," Faith interjects. "From what I saw."

"-- this fellow got it into his head to fill the vacuum of power in the greater Los Angeles area. He's been trying to wet his beak in my pocket for months."

"Is that literal?" Willow asks, brightening. "Like the Bird-Man of Alcatraz -- okay, never mind. _I_ thought it was funny..."

"At first he wanted a cut of the profits," Dorion continues. "When he realized I wouldn't cooperate, he demanded a share of the business. Pointing out that without sanction under the law -- as prostitutes or demons -- my girls have nowhere to turn."

"Slayer's not a gun for hire." Faith crosses both arms over her chest, doing all but kicking her feet up on the desk and marking the madame's chair. "Personal favor's one thing. Fairy godmother, now -- commercial interest --"

"Consider it recognizing your authority in this realm." Madame Dorion clears her throat as delicately as a hummingbird sipping nectar. "It's in the interest of any business community to maintain good relations with law enforcement."

"Support your local sheriff," Willow mutters.

"Precisely." Dorion stirs a pinch of sugar into her cup. "If it eases your conscience, think of us as the beleaguered town fathers, hiring a marshal. I'm told you're in the market."

Faith's instinct is to retort. Instead she realizes the likely source of information. In the fallout from Willow's spell, their desertion is public knowledge to any Slayer.

"What about your girl?"

"Lack of proper training." Dorion shakes her head. "She was more than eager to get involved -- and far too valuable to allow it. I insisted she refrain from nondefensive combat until her current term expires."

Faith considers asking if they can trade places. "Which is?"

"Another eight months."

Faith mulls this over, ignoring Willow's subtle attempts trying to gain her attention through finger gestures.

"This come with a shiny tin star?" She can't help a smirk. "Never saw myself wearing the white hat."

Dorion leans back, her victory all but assured. "I believe we have dress blues in wardrobe."

"I'll skip the nightstick." Faith kicks back, assessing their surroundings with a newly professional eye. "Gotta say -- classier'n some of the joints I worked."

Willow gives her the expected look. To wit, aghast.

"Hey, silk sheets...velvet. No needles on the floor." Faith makes a show of looking around again. "No sawdust."

"I --" Willow's face is rapidly matching her hair. "I'm all about the rights of women to use their sexuality as they see fit, and there's a patriarchal dimension to fears--"

"Your point, Gloria?"

"They're --" Willow leans over with a desperate stage whisper. "They're _whores_!"

Faith shrugs. "I'm in."

  
**

  
The first thing Vi notices -- much to her own guilt -- is that they don't all look alike.

Except for the crossbows.

"We didn't order a Wu-Tang Clan." Rona's nonchalance isn't enough to make her disregard the mass of weapons that surround them, nocked and loaded. Still, it gives Vi a flicker of confidence. The two of them walked out of Sunnydale -- well, rode a bus, and by gum they're going to ride one out of here. Or something like that.

"Yo, I think your little friends took a wrong turn at Albuquerque." The speaker is likewise casual rather than hostile. Vi spots him atop a stack of boxes, partially hidden in shadow. "And this would be the point where you turn around."

"Let me handle this," Rona mutters, slowly climbing out with both hands raised. "No sense all of us going down."

Another man raises his weapon in a threatening fashion. "He said get the hell out of here, bitch!"

"She's handling it," Vi assures Dawn.

 _THWACK_

"Not very well --" Vi grabs Dawn and ducks as the offending crew member flies by overhead. A shower of bolts lands around the entrance to the tunnels, some bouncing through the hole in the floor and clattering by.

"Douse 'em!" someone yells.

The hissing of a thousand snakes rises in their ears and Vi cringes, clutching the ladder, anticipating another heat wave. Instead, she lets out a screech as a shower of liquid hits them from all sides. Below her Dawn splutters and coughs, trying to hold on under the powerful spray before just as suddenly it ceases, leaving them drenched and coughing.

"What the hell is this?" Rona's fire is only being fanned hotter, from the sound of it. Another thud, of someone or something hitting a wall. "A wet T-shirt contest?"

"Holy water." The first speaker again, as cool and collected as before. "Naw, naw -- back off her, man."

"You crazy, Rondell?" Vi peeks out, trying to spot this one. The shouter, a rather enormous individual in a duster, levels an accusing finger. "You see how she jacked me?"

"I see how they ain't exactly cookin' before our eyes." Rondell -- or so it would appear -- regards his injured companion with quiet disapproval. The fact that he himself is currently up against a wall, Rona's hand bunched into the front of his oversize hooded jacket, makes his coolness all the more cool.

"That ain't natural, man!"

"You know what's natural?" Rondell is clearly the type who relishes rhetorical questions. "Lion takin' down a lamb. Volcanoes. Them diseases on the History Channel that make your junk rot off."

"You got a point, then make it!" The other man takes a limping step forward. "Before I make her eat this!"

"You guys." Rona doesn't bother to hide her exasperation and disgust. "Always tryin' to shove something down our throats."

"Point is." Rondell's interjection makes Rona fall silent. At this distance Vi can just make out the faint wrinkles in the corners around his eyes; see the fatigue and chronic injury in his posture, the way in which he carries himself. "Might be natural --"

"-- doesn't make it right," Rona finishes. She looks around, assessing the mass of young males, all of whom are focused on her. Vi isn't sure whether to be insulted.

"What's going on?" Dawn's muffled whisper from below reminds Vi of her presence. "My magic fingers are getting tired."

"Okay." Rona addresses the room. "I let him down, you lower your weapons. I let him go, you let my friends out. We exchange information -- and you let us go."

"On what?" Rondell sounds only mildly curious.

"Demons." Rona's flat statement leaves no wiggle room. "Most street gangs wouldn't be strapped with crossbows." She nods her head without looking away, indicating a crude forge and machine shop set up on the far side of the room. "Or bling out their truck with crosses."

"Learned it from a man I used to run with." Rondell nods. "Follow her lead."

Vi's expecting another outburst. But while their discontent is clear as day, the crew obeys their leader's orders to a man. Dawn crawls out of the hole in the floor, waving away her assistance.

"Your boys on the corner?" Rona runs her gaze down Rondell's stocky frame, then back up. "Good eyes."

"And you must be the Slayer. Gunn told me about y'all." Rondell returns the frank inspection with an appreciative stare. "Said you was white."

Rona shrugs. "I got better."

"Um..." Vi leans over to Dawn. "Feeling very Caucasian right now."

  
**

  
For the past four hours, thirty-seven minutes and nineteen seconds, Dennis Pearson has been doing what spirits do best. Namely, watching and listening. He knows how long it's been because of the "system clock", one of the many things Willow had given him access to. He'd seen computers over the years, on TV and eventually in person -- so to speak -- during the brief periods that his apartment had been occupied by the living. From what he could tell, they were semimythical beasts of stubborn temperament, ill-suited for a deceased English major such as himself. But nearly ever since he settled into this strange new world, Maude Pearson's only boy has had more important things to worry about than learning how to play with shiny new toys. No, instead he's spent the last four hours, thirty-seven minutes and nineteen seconds alternately glued to the webcam and cursing Willow's tendency to place it at the most inconvenient angle.

Likewise, the microphone doesn't do so well picking up noise outside of its normal directional coverage. It wasn't enough he'd had to figure out how to get trickle power to the devices to wake them out of hibernation. It certainly hadn't helped when the few glimpses he got of the outside world consisted of nubile, scantily clad demon flesh. It was all very exotic and more than slightly disturbing, as well as somewhat confusing for a repressed child of the twenties who still remembered feeling guilty the first time he found a colored girl attractive. This same confusion colors his vision of Faith. In one chilling instant he'd remembered the casual and vicious cruelty of this woman's assault on Wesley; the weeks of Cordy's fading bruises and flinches, the bitter recriminations regarding Angel's response to the crisis. And while the redhead obviously trusts her, there's no way Dennis can bring himself to go on nothing more than the word of someone he just met.

After all, love is blind.

 _oh-bo-sahn_

 _Huh?_ Dennis tries to make sense of the passing syllables, repeating them in what he can only assume is his mind. From nowhere, a window pops up.

He's about to angrily dismiss it in a storm of fiery pixel wrath when he sees it's transparent, overlaid on the desktop, leaving it partly visible below. It's only after admiring the artistry of the surrounding bezeled shadows that he thinks to examine the window's contents.
    
    
    UNABLE TO RESOLVE net://search?=obosan  
    ROUTER DISCONNECTED. RECONNECT?  
    

 _Duh._ His mind decides, and the window vanishes, replaced with a new one.
    
    
    ENTER WIFI PASSWORD:  
    

Dennis spends the next forty-three seconds blistering memory space with curses sufficient to condemn his immortal soul. But the router, whatever the obosan that is, locks him out after five attempts.

 _Cordy!_ His silent cry falls on dead air.

And then she appears.

Dennis can feel the queerest sensation at the sight. It's as though his body were out there somewhere, trying to remind him what it felt like to be alive; reliving every moment of his all too brief life in which he'd known the pleasure and the gift of a woman's attention meant for him. He hasn't thought of his fiancee in years: Linda, the woman his mother had entombed him alive for just to keep from corrupting her sweet baby boy. Ma had called her a streetwalker, and the funny part? It was true. He didn't care. Linda swore that part of her life was over. They had their savings; they had fresh passports. And as soon as he got back from picking up his things, they were going to get in that taxi...

The memory brings fresh joy and pain alike, and Dennis tries to shake his head to clear it. Something else he hasn't done in years. Absent shoulders slump, and he returns to staring at the window before him.

The picture is old -- even he can see that -- but the image of Cordelia Chase is as vibrant as he remembers her. All the energy of youth and ambition that would lead her to Los Angeles to pursue her destiny.

Fresh bile rises in his nonexistent throat. Dennis looks away, seeking refuge from her smile. The caption beneath the photo jogs something, making him think it must have been scanned from a yearbook. In bold, confident typography, it states:
    
    
    SUNNYDALE HIGH SURVIVORS  
    

His gaze flicks to the top of the window.
    
    
    LOCAL SEARCH RESULTS  
    

Dennis Pearson ponders for seven point eight seconds before thinking one word.

 _Faith._

  
**

  
"You aren't --" Dawn blinks, aghast. "You are."

"Huh?" Vi looks up from sweeping. "What's wrong with humming? And happily at that."

" _Straight Outta Compton_ is hardly appropriate!" Dawn looks furtively about. "When I get you home --"

"Hey." One of the members of the Crew -- Vi now envisions the term with proper capitalization -- is clambering up the ladder to the loft, with some difficulty.

"Hi." Vi nods, going for casual as she leans on her broom. "Lamar, right? You okay?"

"Took worse." To his credit, this comes across a simple statement of fact. He's younger than they thought at first glance, but facial scars and large muscles will give you that impression. Her, anyway. From Vi's perspective, size alone should make it impossible for him to move with this sort of natural, gymnastic grace. The height of a basketball star combined with a rugby player's build looks even bigger without the coat.

"I just wanted to say," he continues, more subdued. "I didn't mean to disrespect. It was just, heat of the moment and all. You know?"

"I've been there." Vi rolls for a successful Nod of Understanding.

"Cause, you know, I got a mama. Not a baby mama. And two sisters, and a aunt, and a grandma." Is he looking at Dawn? "So I'm definitely down with the ladies."

"Absolutely. So are we." Vi clears her throat. "Mostly in a non-Sapphic way. Contrary to popular stereotype."

"And we heard nothing but good about the Slayer," Lamar hurriedly continues. "We're all about that. You feel me?"

"Uh, I'm very confident in my sexuality. I don't need to prove a thing." Vi manages a smile. "Let's wait until we get to know each other bet-- oh."

"Don't mind her." Dawn steps in for the rescue. "She's got _a_ soul, but she doesn't _have_ soul."

The young man shakes his head, appraising Dawn with a seasoned eye. "Still can't wrap my head around it."

"I know," Dawn replies airily. "But we actually are all that. Well -- she's working on it."

Vi smiles and grits her teeth, wondering if this is some previously undiscovered version of Good Cop Bad Cop.

"Naw, I mean -- first there's more'n one Slayer? That's tight enough. I just mean --" The man hesitates. "No offense? But y'all are some _skinny_ ass females."

"None taken." Vi feels her ears start to burn, matching her hair.

"Friendly warning. Some of the guys, they might want to see you check out the weight room." The Crewman regards Dawn with fresh interest. "Wouldn't mind an arm wrestle, if you go easy."

"Um --" Vi intervenes, trying not to laugh at the sudden reversal or the look on Dawn's face. "That really wouldn't be -- safe."

"Figured." The man nods, disappointed. "Had to ask."

"I'm not --" Dawn cuts off as Vi shoots her a look of silent warning. "Um...not real big on showing off my...Slayer...strength."

"I hear that." A Nod of Understanding back at them. Plus one, at least. "Get any kind of rep, every fool around come runnin' to take you out."

"Exactly." Dawn manages a friendly smile, if a bit less flirtatious. "Anyway, we should finish cleaning up this mess we made. With our...Slayer strength. Ow!" She lifts one foot, glaring at Vi.

"You holler you want a hand." From his bemused tone, their new companion finds this unlikely. "Walk soft with that big stick, now."

Dawn snickers under her breath as both girls watch Lamar descend the ladder, muscles rippling beneath his skimpy wife-beater. "Big stick."

"I _will_ kill you," Vi declares, wiping her brow. "In true Big Sister fashion, I will beat you like the not-so- redheaded stepchild you are."

"Big words for a short Slayer." Dawn dances back out of broom range. "Maybe you can get some help from _Lamar_."

"That's it." Vi begins to roll up both sleeves. "Don't run and this won't hurt. As much."

Dawn raises her fists, assuming a classic pugilist stance. "In your --"

Something flies by with a scream.

"-- dreams?"

In one instant Vi identifies the source of the sound, as Lamar slams into the wall; in the next its origin, as a horde of blue uniforms burst through every first-floor door and window, descending on them in a shouting, barbarous horde. _Shock and awe._ For a moment she's back in the Bronze, a line of cops blocking their way, dragging Faith outside for what they all knew comes next.

Violet Winters was and still is many things. A nerd; a loner; a military brat of the first order with a deep-seated and longstanding respect for authority. But while her first thought is that their new comrade has somehow once more gotten on Rona's bad side, it isn't the fear in his voice, the speed at which he was thrown that was beyond a shadow of a doubt what she would call inhuman. And of all things she isn't, _stupid_ is at the top of the list.

"Demons!"

Below the rest of the Crew are discovering this, altering their tactics appropriately. Lamar staggers to his feet and grabs a barbell from the weight rack, fending off a leathery, crimson nightmare whose enormous beak sports triple rows of gleaming incisors.

"Rona!" Dawn shouts, tossing Vi a crowbar.

"I don't know!" The crowbar leaves Vi's hand at lightning speed, driving halfway into a demonic eye socket, sending said socket's owner flying backwards from the ladder. Fighters on both sides scatter as the body hits the floor in a bright and cheerful shower of plumage.

"They said the office! Where's the office?" Dawn's holding tight to her shoulder bag, patting down her pockets for useful items. "Is it on this floor?"

" _All aboard_."

A grip of cold iron encircles her wrists, followed by a sack over her head. Vi throws every ounce of strength into trying to break free, but her unseen captor gently smacks her on the side of the head before throwing her over one shoulder like a lifeless sack of potato peels.

The owner of the gravelly voice clears its throat. " _Going down._ "

Dawn's shriek is abruptly cut off, devolving into furious muffled outbursts.

"Fall back!" someone else shouts. "We got what we came for!"

A wet and snuffling nose quivers its way over the back of her neck. Through the haze and disorientation, the jarring pain of a demonic shoulder blade jammed up against her sternum, Vi struggles to hold on.

"And this one..." The gleeful triumph in the voice makes Vi's blood run cold. "She's a _real_ treat."

  
**

This entry was originally posted at <http://frogfarm.dreamwidth.org/127248.html>. Speak your piece there using OpenID or whatever.


	4. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box" (Act 3)

_  
**Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box" (Act 3)**   
_   


>   
> _Is there anybody out there?_   
> 

Yeah, I got nothing. No excuses good or bad. To all of you battling far greater demons, I salute you.

This year, I plan on writing more, lifting heavy, and continuing to enjoy myself.

So: Faith and Willow have agreed to provide protection for Madame Dorion and her high-class demonic call girls. Kate Lockley has reluctantly accepted help from her new spooky friend David in order to crack the abduction cases. Phantom Dennis, having taken up residence in Willow's laptop, is searching through her files in an attempt to learn more about Faith. And Vi and Dawn, fresh off the boat from fleeing the uproar in England, have been abducted by parties unknown from the Crew's new base of operations...

  
 **(** [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/124399.html#cutid1) **)**  
 **(** [Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/127443.html) **)**  
 **(** [Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/128868.html) **)**

  
   "Have at it, boys."

   The crew don't hesitate in the least, falling to with gusto. One looks up, confusion on his smeared features.

   "Not havin' any? Boss?"

   "Maybe later." Secretly, Kazarkh finds himself salivating at the prospect. It's been too long since he had proper human, let alone such a succulent specimen. But this feast was reward for a team who had gone above and beyond the call. With a haul this big, a double jackpot no one could have predicted, the phrase _more than worth it_ has never been so apt. He can handle a little mess. Vampires might have cleaner feeding habits, but diversity was the key ingredient to the success of this particular army of the damned. Unique abilities, rare demonic genetic heritage -- all were welcome, as long as they had something to offer.

   Of course, all the muscle in the dimensions meant little without intelligence. He'd known the gangbangers were occupying the abandoned gym on Yancy less than a week after their moving-in party. After a quick skinning of the employee responsible for the delayed report, Kazarkh had stepped up surveillance, ordering his forces to sit tight. And when a chance remark was overheard -- that little detail about the building actually being a Slayer safehouse, uttered by a Slayer herself -- he gave the go-ahead. A few police uniforms, liberated from Dorion's closet, only added to the element of surprise. Before the humans knew what hit them, his crew was in and out. Raid accomplished.

   The sweet taste of success.

   "Oh, what the hell. Maybe a little something." Kazarkh gestures from the comfort of his beanbag chair, beckoning for a rib. "Don't want to spoil my appetite."

  
**

  
   "Let me go!"

   A vicious twist of her wrist brings it almost to the snapping point. Defiantly, she levels a glare at her captor.

   "I said --"

   "You first." David's eyes remain locked on Kate's trembling fingers.

   "You want evidence? How many bodies? We have to get in there, before --"

   "They're not dead yet."

   Kate's jaw silently threatens to drop.

   "But they will be if we go in blind." David's voice remains calm despite the finely whittled point quivering mere centimeters from his chest. "Or alone."

   "I thought --" Kate shakes her head, easing up her grip on the stake.

   "That I was going to wash my hands and walk away?" David's gaze meets hers as he releases her aching wrist. "Be honest."

   "You first." Kate tries to rub away the pain. "And yes."

   David glances back at the building, where the guards stand unmoving outside the front door. "The only reason I'm not hurt by that is because you don't know me."

   "I'm thinking that's the idea."

   "Told you I appreciated you for your mind." The fatalism in David's voice vanishes, to be replaced by that annoyingly cheerful, can-do tone. "Time to bring someone else on board."

   Kate blinks in confusion. "Who?"

   "Don't play dumb," David retorts. "Every decent gumshoe has a good snitch."

   Kate twitches her lip. "Did you say gumshoe?"

   "Cop, detective -- even without your old support network, there's no way you don't have a single man on the street -- or woman -- who can tell you what's what." David checks his pocket spy camera once more. "You're only as good as your CI. Am I right?"

   "Then you know they're not big on meeting new faces." Kate doesn't bother explaining. Her relationship with Angel had practically made her untouchable among the demon communities.

   "However you want to play it." David glances meaningfully at his camera, still displaying the now ominously empty cell. "But the clock is ticking."

  
**

  
   "You call yourselves professionals?" Rona's laser stare sweeps the room, finding everything and everyone in it sadly wanting. "All that Indiana Jones crap didn't keep my friends from getting snatched up. Or you from getting your asses beat."

   Surrounded by wreckage and strewn equipment, the battered recipients of her abuse appear torn between resentment and guilt. Lamar sports an ugly burn on the left shoulder, the result of a demon's splash of acidic blood as it fell victim to his splitting axe. Another man had a clean hole through the meat of his forearm, but otherwise the floor and ceiling had taken the brunt of the damage.

   "We'll get 'em back." In contrast to his men, Rondell is as quiet and assured as when they first met. "Neesy, you had tunnel watch. What happened?"

   "I told you we needed to get them cameras up." The unlucky crewmember's defensive demeanor and body language don't bode well for him in Rona's estimation. "Had 'em here a week now."

   "And you had watch." Rondell doesn't disappoint. "And now you got kitchen duty. For a week."

   Neesy gives a sullen nod, apparently relieved at getting off light.

   "No prisoners to interrogate. No bodies to examine." Rondell allows himself a shake of the head. "Remind me again what I pay you guys for?"

   "Yo, we was ambushed." Neesy's protest rings hollow to Rona beneath the bluster, but this time Rondell appears to be in agreement.

   "And we ain't been set up here but a week. Like you said." For the first time, the leader looks and sounds grim. "They was already on us."

   Lamar grimaces in distaste, or pain. "Think we got a snitch?"

   "Who else knew? 'Sides you and me." Rondell shakes his head again. "Naw, you guys pair up and search the place. Every floor. Look for any equipment ain't ours. Cameras, mikes, whatever."

   "What about you?"

   "Me and sister here are gonna strategize. Figure out what y'all get to do next."

   Rona watches them leave with a sense of newfound respect. "Not bad."

   "Not like the old days." Rondell sighs. "Oh, they got muscle and heart to spare. But not a lot of independent thinkers left, y'know?"

   Rona hands him the broom Dawn had been using. "Gotta admit I was expecting more pushback."

   "Far as these guys are concerned, Slayer could be Pee Wee Herman." The lines in Rondell's face appear deeper than ever as he studies the broom. "You ain't the first shorty they took orders from. Won't be the last."

   Rona knows that look. "Another independent thinker, not so dearly departed?"

   "Gunn's little sis. Though she kinda raised him." As Rondell's fingers trace one of the lines down his cheek, Rona realizes it's a scar. "Vamps got her, my man wasn't ever right in the head after that. Hooked up with one his own self. Some cracker with a soul."

   "Grief makes people do strange things." Mostly she's thinking of Buffy, and some of those stories.

   "What about you?" Rondell gives her something like a smile. "Not one, but _two_ white chicks? Sharpen your stakes, get you coffee --"

   "It's not like that." Suddenly Rona feels the overpowering need to put this man in his place. "Black, white, yellow, what the hell ever -- I'm not your sister. They're mine. We bled for each other."

   "Can't ask for more'n that." The smile vanishes, but Rondell doesn't look away. "Think I know who got your people."

   Rona quells the urge to leap upon him, beat it out of him. "Who?"

   "Dinosaur dude, name of Kazarkh. Been livin' large since the fat cats at Wolfram and Hart got run outta town. Word on the street says he's buildin' his own mafia. With blackjack, and hookers." Rondell's gaze never alters, but he seems to nod at the look in her eyes. "Whatever you need, you got it. We dropped the ball here."

   "I got this." Rona manages to be graceful. "Save the overwatch for your own."

   "Check you out all military." Rondell's eyebrow gives a little rise. "Where you pick that up?"

   "Guy I knew." Rona busies herself checking her pockets. "We watched a lot of war movies."

   Now Rondell does look away. "Wish I didn't have to stay here."

   "They need you." Rona finishes her inventory, squaring her shoulders and standing tall. "Just like my friends need me."

   With nothing more to say, she drops down the tunnel. Finding her way out is quicker even with no light, all the bulbs blown out by the demonic dynamic entry.

   She emerges blinking into daylight, feeling doubly jetlagged. Hard to believe it's less than four hours since they touched down. Nothing like home sweet home.

   "Hey, sailor."

   Befuddlement and shock meet head on as Rona whirls about. A compact car is pulled to the curb not twenty feet away with the window rolled down; Faith leaning out the window wearing her trademark grin, Willow partially visible behind her at the wheel.

   "Told you." The other Slayer nods to her driver before turning back and extending one hand. "Need a lift?"

  
**

  
   Vi remembers endless hours as a kid reading about pilots in captivity, after Dad's tales of adventure wore thin. The Hanoi Hilton. SERE training. The pilot's tap code.

   If only she'd been a less curious kid.

   No. Scared was the old Vi -- well, the younger. Shrinking Violet, wallflower extraordinaire, who couldn't win a fight with her own shadow and cringed when sniggering boys asked embarrassing questions about carpets and drapes. Vi was the woman who helped close a Hellmouth, the scourge of the Turok-Han, the one who smoked every other Slayer on the obstacle course. Almost. On the fast track to commanding her own squad... Okay, so much for that. But the point was valid. And just because she was currently chained to a wall, awaiting who knew what kind of horrible fate, was no reason to --

   " _Ugh._ "

   "Ahh!" Vi jumps half out of her skin before recognizing the slurred voice. "Dawn! Are you okay?"

   "I'm fine." The younger Summers sounds more annoyed than injured. "Deja vu doesn't _begin_ to cover it."

   "God, there is _no_ light here. We must be sealed in." Vi's momentary panic quickly subsides. "But we can still breathe. So, um, plus."

   A slight grunt and clinking sound. "Can you move?"

   Vi strains against her bonds, finding them immobile. "No joy. Except..."

   "What?" Dawn sounds like she's trying not to hope.

   "I'm glad you're here. Well, not _here_ here, but -- you know. Alive." Vi clears her throat, feeling the old self-conscious burn. "With me."

   A hint of mischief. "Even though I was yanking your chain about _Lamar_?"

   "Glad _someone's_ feeling better." Vi grits her teeth, staring into the formless darkness that surrounds them. The slight movement of air, along with the echo to their voices, would seem to indicate a medium size room. Concrete walls and floor...

   "I feel like puking rainbows." Dawn exhales a hiss of discomfort. "Whatever they hit us with? Makes chloroform a fond memory."

   A cold eel stirs in Vi's stomach as dim memories of their abduction begin to resurface. The notion that their captors might have more than simple slaughter in mind is enough to make the eel give another nervous wriggle.

   "Maybe you could pull off another magic trick?"

   "I can't see a thing, and I'm chained to a wall." The current of irritation beneath Dawn's dry wit is threatening to turn pro. "But if you really think being invisible is going to help --"

   "It was just a suggestion." Vi leans back, trying in vain to wiggle her wrist inside the restraints. "I'm sorry."

   Frustration gives way to suspicious curiosity. "What for?"

   "I was supposed to watch out for you."

   "You did." Another sigh. "Not your fault I wasn't able to use my Slayer strength."

   "Not like it's doing me a lot of good right now." Vi strains once more to make out something, anything to differentiate light from shadow. "Do you still have your lockpicks?"

   "Yeah --"

   "Yes!"

   "In my carry case. Which is strapped to my ankle. Which is approximately five feet from my hands, which are chained to a wall." Dawn's sigh is louder this time. "Name, rank and serial number. You might want to practice."

   Vi blinks. In the darkness, she can't tell the difference. "Do I _have_ a rank?"

   "You tell me. This is the first time in I-can't-remember that I haven't been Little Sister." A wistful note enters Dawn's voice. "Though I wouldn't complain if Buffy were to come bursting in to save us right about now."

   Both women fall silent, the sound of their breath the only respite from oblivion.

   "It was worth a shot." Dawn forces a hint of cheer. "Know any good jokes?"

   "All the good ones, I learned from you." Vi's shoulders are beginning to cramp up from the unnatural position. "I just wonder if we should keep trying to play like you're a Slayer. Especially if they plan on interrogating us."

   "We should have some breathing room." Dawn's reassurance carries the weight of experience. "Interrogation usually means at least one monologue. Maybe a rant. Sometimes with unicorn statues."

   "Well, if they ask? I'd really like to have a rank."

   "Oh for -- fine. Um." Dawn considers. "How about Agent?"

   "Can't I be 'Special Agent'?"

   "Sure." Dawn's eyeroll is audible.

   "Special Agent in Charge of --"

   "Rona _will_ find us."

   "Special Agent's fine," Vi hurriedly interjects.

   "...eventually."

  
**

  
   "Am I still your bodyguard?"

   "What part of let me do the talking --"

   "Yelling," David points out. Kate's reply strangles in her throat, under the kind of throttling she'd rather bestow upon mister secret agent man. She ought to save her breath for the walk. Already seven blocks from where they parked, and no sign. Her guy better not have become demon chow --

   "One vacant lot." She nods ahead, through the field of overgrown weeds at the figure standing casually in the center, hands tucked in the pockets of a baggy, hooded jacket. "One reluctant CI."

   David manages a smile. "Put it all together, it spells --"

   "Let me do the talking." Kate turns to him with another lecture in her eyes. The look should say it all and yet she always has to with him. "You may think you can order this guy around. Play him off on whatever bullshit you think is so life and death to the good citizens of this fine nation, but --"

   "You're not letting me do that to a friend?" David looks thoughtful. "I remember friends."

   "I don't know him that well." She pokes him in the chest, hard enough to make him shift on his feet. David just looks back at her with that damned expectant gaze of zen or stupidity. "But I had to work like a bastard to gain what little bit of his trust I've got. And between that and your ability to drive, punch things and play with expensive toys? I'm pretty damn sure I know which one I find more valuable."

   "Got it." David twists finger and thumb at the corner of his mouth, throwing an invisible something over his shoulder. "Lip zipped."

   "Just follow my lead."

   They resume their trek, pushing aside waist-high stalks of allergen-producing scrub. Kate notes the lack of buildings to hide in. With the surrounding area open and exposed you could see someone coming a mile away, from any direction.

   "Lucky you got me. Been busy." Rondell's hands remain in his pockets as he gives David the once-over. "This your new partner?"

   "You can call him Spanky." Kate doesn't allow herself the luxury of observing David's reaction. "Like myself, he would be interested in any information you might have regarding the recent rash of abductions."

   "Rash, huh?" Rondell's scornful look matches his caustic tone. "Guess they finally got a white girl."

   Beneath the shade of his hood, Kate spies the shadow of a bruise, adding to the stiff posture and awkward angles of his body, the man's dark eyes shining bright with pain. Whatever violence he'd been dishing out had recently been returned.

   She glances over, giving a nod.

   "The bureau," David stresses without overt capitalization, "tends to take an interest in certain topics. Human trafficking being one."

   Rondell dismisses this with a wave. "Far as I'm concerned, all y'all are feds. No offense."

   "None taken."

   "Now you --" Rondell returns his attention to Kate. "You're all right, for a cop."

   "I haven't been a cop in a long time." Kate shrugs. "And you don't have to like him. Lord knows I don't."

   "I'm just sayin'." Rondell wrinkles his nose. "But him? Check out that fresh new narc smell."

   "We saw two girls taken." Kate stares him down. "On camera. We're trying to get them back."

   Rondell's expression remains neutral, but something flickers in his eye. "And him?"

   "Picking up tips from the pros," David says. "Learning how to be a hunter. Like you."

   "You see any bears on these streets?" Rondell inquires. "Dude, I'm a CI."

   "Who meets people in broad daylight, as opposed to the dead of night."

   "You cross Venice, you're steppin' on my turf." Rondell returns the other man's gaze, unblinking. "And if you don't plan on doin' right by them that live here, you can step right back off."

   "We know where they are," Kate interjects, trying to defuse the situation. "But we don't know the inside layout. Where they are, what kind of defenses --"

   Rondell's eyes narrow. "The one you had in your sights?"

   Kate nods. "You know how long I've been on him."

   "Sucker just trashed our new crib." Rondell looks about the field, as if reassuring himself of their isolation. "Recognized his crew. But they had uniforms, stun grenades -- for a second, we thought it was po-po for sure."

   "They ripped off the cops?" David frowns. "Seems noisy for low profile."

   "This is LA," Kate reminds him. "You might not read about it in the papers. But even Joe Sixpack can only take so many gangs on PCP stories before he starts carrying a gun _and_ a cross."

   Rondell shakes his head in bemusement.

   "Don't ask, don't tell." David nods. "Kazarkh must have a rabbi."

   A return nod from Rondell indicates that some sort of test has been passed. "Keep talking."

   "An inside man," David clarifies. "Could be a political connection. Or someone just high up enough on the food chain. For a few mortgage payments, one low level grunt could requisition enough toys to hold off an army."

   "And the courthouse," Kate interjects, with dawning realization. "Someone with access to the docket could be feeding him intel."

   "It's a terrible thing, not being able to trust your government."

   "So you know who you're after," Rondell cuts in. "She tell you _what_?"

   "Bad lizard." David doesn't smile. "She also said you could help. If you wanted."

   Kate resists the temptation to scrub pollen from her eyeballs. The field of uncut grass reflects the golden afternoon light, a tiny pocket of nature surrounded by concrete jungle.

   "I do."

   "Then let's get moving." Kate fixes them both in turn with a grim gaze. "Because if we don't get to those girls soon? They're going to wish they were dead."

  
**

  
   "Kill me now."

   "Happy to oblige," Vi manages through gritted teeth. "As soon as I slip these cuffs."

   "You're just going to shred your wrists," Dawn sighs. "And probably bleed to death. And then the demons will laugh at your corpse."

   "Better than desecrating it."

   "I think they plan on doing that while we're still breathing," Dawn points out. "Also, they may call you emo."

   "Sticks and stones," Vi grunts. If she can just twist a little farther to the left...

   "Or they could take it out on me." Dawn sounds less sarcastic.

   "Hey, take it easy." Vi momentarily ceases her squirming, attempting to project confidence. "I'm gonna -- _we_ are gonna get out of here in one piece. Two pieces. Uh -- you and me."

   "How you coming on those cuffs?"

   Vi forces a smile despite the absence of light. "Any minute."

   "Maybe if I disappear again, they'll think I managed to escape."

   "Sounds good." Vi returns to wriggling her arm. "Keep working on that."

   "I have been." Another sigh, puffing air through cheeks. "I got tired of trying. Plus my head got dizzier."

   "So try something else."

   A moment of silence.

   "Dawn?"

   "I spy with my little eye, something that begins with...M."

   "Manacles."

   "Geez, throw me a bone here."

  
**

  
   "But then I realized what Faith and I were feeling this whole time, was --"

   "Slayers."

   "Exactly." Willow nods as they pass through the ornate arch of the double doors. "When I tried to port the Scythe, I got a bunch of feedback. Then I thought about it, and I recognized...the resonance, is an okay word. And it acted like a sonar ping. So we swung back and grabbed the Scythe, I rejiggered the location spell, and it was just like finding any other Slayer. Just had to home in."

   "Then find her too." Rona's harsh whisper burns with need. When did she last sleep? "Find Violet. Any luck, Dawn's still with her --"

   "I already tried. Still too much interference." A flash of aggravation in the witch's eyes reminds Rona that anything capable of evading their gaze has to have some significant power of its own. "Believe me, you'll be the first to know. Second."

   Rona looks around in confusion. "What _is_ this place?"

   "Three guesses and the first two don't count." Faith nods at the giggling gaggle of scantily clad inhumanity lounging about on the luxurious furniture, exposing everything from flesh to fur and scales, tooth and claw. "Welcome to the chicken ranch."

   "Demon hookers," Rona breathes, her worries momentarily forgotten. "You always did take us on the best field trips!"

   "We're under a truce," Faith says. "Helping these ladies out."

   Rona imagines how stricken she must appear. Probably ready to blow a gasket, from the way the room is looking back at her. But how can they just relax when --

   "Don't worry," Faith assures her. "We might have gone off the reservation, but we got Pipsqueak's back. And your bee eff eff."

   "The madame's agreed to share information," Willow chimes in as the three of them ascend the staircase. Rona glances down at the group of girls, a subtle twinge flaring low in her belly. "We've just started to collate abduction reports, and -- what?"

   "Vampire." Rona keeps it on the down low, doesn't look or point. Still, with the damn preternatural hearing, the target knows she's been made.

   "So?" comes the belligerent response. The glitzily accoutresized young-seeming woman flips a finger at Rona, lifting her dainty nose before turning back to her companions with a dismissive air. "Girls are one thing, but I am _not_ getting in a room alone with that one."

   "You couldn't afford it, _honey_." Rona makes no show of quiet this time.

   "No riling the natives." Faith tugs her sleeve, once. "We gotta work with these folks."

   "Now you, Lehane." The vamp flashes a toothy grin over one pale shoulder. "You ring me up any time. On the house."

   A gale of laughter follows them upstairs as Rona glances at the others, noting the hint of color in Willow's cheeks, the tightness in Faith's jaw. Something tells her it's better not to ask.

   Dorion turns out to be the semi-expected classy-slash-classic middle-aged broad just a shade too well preserved to be accounted for by surgery (or so Willow hints when the madame's back is turned). Rona gingerly sits on the edge of a red leather chair, painfully aware of her back to the door.

   "Tea?" The madame doesn't wait for a response. Before anyone can react, a maid has materialized at her side and disappeared.

   "I thought --" Willow fumbles, clearly trying to avoid offense.

   "Yes?"

   "That vampires were...considered...kind of --" Willow blushes. "Low rent."

   "I don't accept them as clients." The madame drops a single lump of sugar in her mug, stirring it with a silver spoon. "I admit the public image of cheap alleyways and boarded-up tenements is not one I wish to convey."

   "But there she is," Faith notes.

   "I agreed to employ her so long as she refrained from murder." Dorion manages not to convey the slightest trace of a smile. "And drinking on the job."

   Rona bristles, on the edge of her chair.

   "It's clear that you have a personal stake in this." Dorion shakes her head. "That will make this easier. And more difficult."

   "Only if you make it difficult." Rona regrets the reflex the moment the words are out of her mouth. Hell if she's going to show it, though.

   "You have every right to be skeptical." Dorion's tea remains untouched, sitting just to the left of her folded hands. "But every moment those girls are away from here is more pain than you can imagine."

   "Time is money." But Rona halts at the look on the madame's face. While she doesn't apologize, she does manage to keep her mouth shut.

   "I have agents investigating the area where you were found --"

   "Probably a dead end." Rona fumbles, trying to recover. "Any other leads?"

   "Madame Dorion --" Willow interjects.

   "Please." The older woman gives an elegant wave of her hand, dismissing concerns before they can be uttered. "Call me Linda."

   From the floor, Willow's laptop bag emits a single, ear-piercing beep.

   "Thought I shut that thing down." Willow gives the bag something between a nudge and a kick. "Sorry. You were saying?"

   "That I also prefer to keep our relations mutually agreeable. To which end, in consideration, you and your partner may avail yourselves of the amenities of this establishment --"

   "You want me to say it?" Faith ignores the madame and turns in her seat to face Willow. "Fine, I'm not interested. And you don't own me. Fair enough?"

   "We appreciate the offer, Linda." The witch remains unperturbed, giving her 'partner' a brief squeeze on the knee. Rona finds herself suppressing both a cringe and a snicker at the senior Slayer's lack of outrage. Faith used to be more fun to watch.

   "But I can't help but think," Willow continues, her fingers steepled together, "that you're more interested in dissecting my relationship."

   Dorion shrugs, unoffended. "Call it a professional interest."

   "So being a madame makes you an expert in human relationships."

   "Actually, my Masters in psychology. From Vassar."

   "Really?" Is Willow turning just the slightest bit purple? "My mom got her masters there."

   "Oh, Sheila?"

   "DO NOT TELL ME SHE WORKED HER WAY THROUGH COLLEGE!"

   "Fun as this is turning out to be --" Faith gives Willow a pat on the knee, ignoring the wisps of steam drifting upward from the witch's ears. "Until we get those field reports, I'm more interested in talking to your Slayer."

   "I anticipated as much." Dorion rises from her chair, trailing swirls of silk. "Feel free to use my office."

   "So she can tape it," Rona observes.

   "Actually, it's the only room in the building with no microphones."

   Willow raises an eyebrow. The madame returns a gracious smile.

   "Or cameras."

  
**

  
   "You said caffeine made you jittery."

   "I get more jittery when I can't see the exits." David frowns and squints at the screen, removing his glasses for a quick polish. "And I told you I needed wifi."

   "And you have it." Kate keeps her eye on the door, just like she promised. No doubt of the whining repercussions if she looks away for one second. If anyone comes gunning for this guy, his own co-workers are probably at the front of the line.

   "You're the one who suggested hipster heaven." David gestures around himself without looking, wearing an expression of mild disapproval or distaste. "Whatever happened to a nice peaceful library?"

   "You'd have to start by hacking their porn filter."

   "I thought California was supposed to be open minded."

   "Stick around. Next year, we're giving demons the vote."

   David snorts, his fingers never ceasing their motion as they fly over the keys. A quick glance at the screen finds only incomprehensible gibberish.

   "Your man didn't join us."

   Kate glances over to the window, where Rondell's unmoving back is framed in glass. "The coffee here definitely qualifies as _stuff white people like_."

   David doesn't respond, engrossed as he is in the mysteries of the electronic world. She returns her attention to the front door, noting the positions of the multitudes of youngsters steadfastly ignoring them. This particular cubbyhole is favored by the more discreet onanists. Or so the barista had informed them, with a wink that left Kate feeling in need of a chemical shower.

   "And we're secure." David's mutter, like the rest of him, goes unnoticed by everyone but his bodyguard. _Temporary_ bodyguard, she reminds herself. "You wanted a money trail?"

   "I want a _name_ ," Kate growls. "Whoever's inside the courthouse handing that overgrown iguana the keys to the city. We take them down, we throw him out on his ear."

   "Lizards don't have ears."

   Kate ignores him, concentrating on keeping watch. Hard to believe sometimes how far she's come from little miss by-the-book, stickler for all the rules. Except at the end of the day, it wasn't just lawyers writing the rules, but _demon_ lawyers. She'd lost her badge -- the only thing she cared about, after her father's tragically unsolved murder -- all because her superiors were unable to deal with reality. Or unwilling, which amounted to the same thing. If she likewise failed to face up to the facts on the ground, she wouldn't be able to face herself, let alone Dad's ghostly memory.

   "We have a winner."

   Kate keeps the door in her sights. _Humor the crazy secret agent's instructions to the letter, that he goeth off not on tangents to distract thee from thy goal._ "We have a name?"

   "No ironclad proof." David frowns, wounded pride readily apparent. "The patterns add up. But he's been careful enough to keep any smoking guns off the network."

   Kate bristles at the thought as David continues, oblivious to her own frustration.

   "But data has to get stored somewhere." A grim smile is audible in David's normally cheery voice. "Even the dirty kind."

   "Which means?"

   "We grab his hard drive."

  
**

  
   Willow sounds increasingly desperate. "What could you possibly learn here that we can't teach you?"

   The Slayer stares back, arms folded across her chest. "Encyclopedic knowledge of human and demonic pressure points."

   "We don't have a course for that." Willow deflates a little, turning to Rona. "Do we have a course for that?"

   "Not last I knew." Rona considers. "Might have revamped the curriculum since we left."

   "Look -- Willow?" The unfamiliar air of the name is compounded by the literally alien accent. Given her recent depressing training and research, Rona suspects one of the with-an-A countries where women were cheaper than vodka; pimped out in Albania or somewhere similar before being trafficked across the Mexican border. That was her guess, anyway. Prying details from their quarry is proving a challenge not at all due to any language barrier.

   "I am no...valuable export. Not nuclear scientist. Concert pianist." The girl pronounces it like _penis_. Rona nearly giggles.

   Willow is more than ready to launch into her standard empowerment speech, but Faith shakes her head. Rona can see the witch deflate in a less obvious fashion.

   "I was...Called? Not long before I came here. I owe great debt to Miss Dorion. Perhaps the best of the worst." The Slayer shrugs. "Now sometimes, when I am with someone, a massage is just a massage. And if I am paid extra, because I know that place under the tail --"

   "-- it's nobody's business but your own," Willow hastily concludes. "Um, Rona? Could you --"

   "I can take it from here." From the look of relief on the witch's face, this is the correct response.

   "I'm still having trouble sorting out all the Slayer. Essences." Willow directs this statement at Faith, who looks to be waiting for the other shoe. "I'm gonna head back to Lorne's. Try to get some perspective."

   "Take five in the lounge." Faith doesn't budge from her chair, studying their East Europa Slayer with a casual intensity that only makes Rona feel even more like she should be somewhere else. "Things heat up, we're gonna need you here anyway."

   "Fine," Willow sighs. "Give me a call if you get any action."

   The witch smiles at the involuntary smirk as Faith's stoic mask finally slips.

   "You bet." Faith watches the redhead's departing hips with unabashed appreciation, sighing as the door shuts. "Thought she'd never leave."

   Rona turns back to the other Slayer. The young woman sits calm and upright, observing the exchange without a flicker of emotion.

   "And you don't feel odd man out? Demon fighter in a house of demons?"

   The Slayer shakes her head.

   "We understand each other."

  
**

  
   "You're not concerned that this is going to tip our hand?"

   "How's that?"

   "When he comes home and discovers that someone performed open heart surgery on his PC."

   "Good for him to sweat." David removes the hard drive from his pocket and slides into the passenger seat, cradling the precious cargo in one palm. "Especially if he doesn't know who's making him sweat."

   "He might suspect me." Kate appears unthrilled at the prospect. "I still can't believe Art would do this. He has a _family_."

   "How dysfunctional is the Mafia?" David retrieves the multitool from his jacket and pops the cover. "And I'm not talking Sopranos."

   "At the risk of getting an answer that may provoke homicidal urges --"

   "Don't you have any _other_ symptoms?"

   "-- what are you doing?"

   "Reading the hard drive."

   "I'm sure it's a rousing page turner."

   "Just think of this as my sonic screwdriver." David wiggles the cables free, locating the appropriate plug.

   Kate shakes her head as she pulls up to the corner. Rondell's on his cell phone, pacing back and forth.

   "Everything okay at home?" Kate inquires. Her CI has never been what you would call forthcoming, but she knows that he feels responsible for a sizable extended family.

   "No news is good news." Rondell snaps the phone shut and strides over to the car, peering at the mess of wiring in David's lap. "What's Spanky up to?"

   "The world may never know."

   "Maybe not," David concedes. "But if you professional demon hunters can spare a moment from your day job writing crappy sitcoms --"

   "You got something?" Rondell inquires. A disarming grin flashes beneath the sarcasm. "Plan on goin' up against a demon, I guess you gotta have _something_."

   "No time, boys." Kate addresses David in a tone to brook no bullshit as she pulls to the curb, leaving the engine running. "Anything?"

   "Give it a minute." The tiny screen is reflected in David's glasses, his gaze inscrutable. "This thing can handle most encryption. Anything too advanced, I have to call in more favors."

   "With your boss?" Kate inquires. "Or your new buddies at Wolfram and Hart?"

   Rondell's eyebrows rise, but he doesn't say a word.

   "I think we're getting somewhere." David nods, his suspicions confirmed. "Nobody uses this level of security without something to hide."

   "That's the kind of talk that worries me," Rondell remarks to Kate. "Classic war movies, man. _Papers, please._ " She can't help a smile at his overprecise mimicry, the stiffened posture and puffed chest.

   "If an interdimensional invasion by multiple hostile species doesn't qualify as an emergency, you're not leaving a whole lot of wiggle room." David chews on his lower lip, frowning at the screen. "Then again, you're better prepared for a state of martial law than most folks. At least you've considered the possibility."

   "Just take it one day at a time." Rondell shrugs. "One neighborhood."

   Kate clears her throat. "And if this doesn't --"

   "Bingo." David looks up with a grin. "Sorry. Force of habit."

   "Some habits are less socially acceptable than others," Kate notes.

   "Bingo being one of 'em," Rondell adds.

   Kate bites her lip. The last thing she needs is the two of them to start getting along. "What do you have?"

   "Financials." David turns the display around, running his finger down the column of names. "What I expected. I _wasn't_ expecting a motherlode."

   Kate shakes her head, trying to make sense of the overflow of data. "Explain."

   "This isn't just Art's payoffs. It looks like he kept all of Kazarkh's records. Maybe every last transaction." David nods again in clear admiration, if not approval. "Could have been insurance. Something to give up if he got nailed."

   "Maybe Kaz gave it to him," Rondell chimes in.

   "For his own insurance." David nods, looking intrigued. "In case he ever had to burn some other demon gang boss...how many of _those_ in the greater Los Angeles area?"

   "Depends on your definition of _boss_ ," Rondell says. "Also _demon_."

   "And _gang_?"

   "Goes without sayin'. See that name there?" Rondell points. "Guy ran a chop shop a while back. Did adrenal gland on the side."

   Her brow furrows as she studies the list. Something teases at her brain, dancing just outside of reach.

   "Kate? What's wrong?"

   "Scroll up." Kate frowns as the naggingly familiar name comes back into view. "I know that place."

   "Our Thompson fan?" David squints closer. "Looks like the payments stopped after..."

   "He was decapitated." A grim thrill at the memory. "I got to see it myself."

   "You saw something else that day." David looks up, pinning her with an oddly sympathetic gaze. "Didn't you?"

   "Back off her, man, --"

   "It's okay, Rondell." Kate hears her voice as if from the bottom of a well, echoing down through layers of solid gravity. "It's been four years."

   She zooms in on David's bespectacled, grizzled features.

   "If you think you know anything about my father's murder? Now's the time to come clean."

   "Just a guess." David is speaking very slowly, as though afraid he'll be accused of a lie. "But it looks like whoever ordered the hit was the same one who made those payments."

   "You mean --"

   David nods.

   "Kazarkh."

  
**

  
   "Where the hell -- _heck!_ " Willow's aggrieved self-censorship trickles through the speaker, evoking memories of tin cans and string. "Where the bloody hellheck did I put that blasted thingamabobseytwins..."

   Dennis tunes out, gathering his wits. At least he hopes they're his wits, as opposed to whatever strange thing his new home's owner seems to have misplaced. While he lacked sufficient privilege to access all the material in her digital archives, he'd seen enough to raise more questions than answers, not all of it regarding Faith. The shock of recognizing the madame's voice as his fiancee had rattled him to the core, shaken him to his immaterial bones.

   "Stupid hierarchical patriarchal filesystem!" Willow's image glares through the screen, her image distorted by the camera lens. Having taken up residence in a quiet room away from the working women had not, it seemed, improved her mood.

   " _Something amiss, sugar plum?_ "

   "Nothing you can help with, Lorne -- sorry to say. Just being hoist on my own petarded naming scheme." Willow turns away from the laptop, cradling the phone to her ear. "I'm not much of a drinker, but I really would rather be back there having a cocktail with my favorite empath."

   " _You wanna hit the streets and grab a bite? I know this great little sushi cart._ "

   "You go ahead. I, uh...I have a problem with fish."

   Dennis withdraws inward, focusing wholly on what feels like himself. The hardest part of existence in this fashion was not knowing if your eyes were open or shut. But that was all part and parcel of being a ghost. On the other hand, living inside this thing they called a computer was something he wasn't quite prepared to call permanent.

   Time to think different.

   The next thing he knows is pain. Or rather, the aftershock of pain too intense to even recall. The air seems to sing, a rippling rain of needles, his new world threatening to come down apart around him, every virtual nerve tingling as he is left reeling and dazed.

   "Whoa!" The noise comes to a stop as Willow's hands grip her laptop, quelling the unholy vibration. The witch looks down, then across the room at something out of camera range. "Was that _you_?"

   Dennis figures it's too hard to deny it. Coming clean is probably the best policy with someone who knows magic more intimately than he ever will.

   _I was trying to jump into something else._ The core of his being still has a warm ache to it, like taffy pulled too quick. _I guess I picked the closest thing that wasn't a piece of furniture._

   "Oh... _oh._ " Willow shakes back and forth, then disappears. The sound of her footsteps echoes offscreen before she looms in the camera once more, wearing a relieved grin. "Well, duh."

   _What?_

   "The Scythe of the Slayer is probably the biggest -- well, most prominent mystical artifact in existence with a, uh, feminine orientation. And your metaphysical presence has a penis." Willow gives a discreet cough. "Which, um, weapon -- phallic symbol -- not sure we have room for that much irony this week."

   _She could have just said no._ Though Dennis feels the need to defend his honor, it's hardly the time to protest too much. They have bigger fish to fry.

   Willow seems to sense his thoughts. "Glad you decided to come out of hiding."

   _I wasn't hiding._ Indignation becomes frustration once more. Willow continues on, oblivious.

   "I know you didn't exactly see Faith at her best. And it's not like I'm some great and trustworthy judge of character. But in my opinion -- she's not evil anymore." A tiny smile. "Except where it counts. And I'm only saying that because she's not here to say it. Which she totally would."

   _I wanted to say something_

   ( _about Linda_ )

   _earlier. In the office._

   Willow doesn't seem to notice the hiccup.

   "Machine was stuck in hibernate," Willow says. "I had to reset to wake it up. You probably didn't have enough juice. And speaking of -- time to check my cell." The witch shakes her head. "Darn thing has worse battery life than this laptop. Progress, my heiny --"

   Another ringing fills the air, less intense than before. Willow looks down at her phone in confusion before noticing the intercom on the desk.

   "Hey, sweetie. One sec --" A harsh buzz of static jars his ears and vanishes, as Willow plugs something into one of the jacks. "Got you on speakerphone so Dennis can hear."

   " _I won't blister those ghosty little ears._ " Faith's warm chuckle surrounds him, the vibrations somehow comforting or comfortable before her voice turns serious. " _And for the record, Dennis -- I'm sorry. For what it's worth._ "

   _Don't mention it._

   " _He, uh...say anything?_ "

   "He's cool with it. Like you say." Willow sounds distracted. "I should install some text to speech software. So he doesn't have to do it himself..."

   " _Later. Need you back up here._ "

   "What -- but I just sat _down!_ "

   " _Dorion's got her own hitter. Wants you guys to knock heads. Figure then you can get around whatever's coverin' things up._ "

   "Can't I just do a remote consult?"

   " _Lemme check._ "

   "Amateurs," Willow mutters.

   Alone with his thoughts, Dennis tries to imagine what Linda must look like after all these years. But when he tries to conjure the image of how he last saw her, the image is blank.

  
**

  
   "Is this Click and Klack?"

   " _I assume you mean 'Klu(click)kla', sir. A common error._ "

   "Yeah, whatever. You're the folks tried to sell off that seer's eyes."

   " _Sir, we handle millions of transactions per year. For specific details, I would have to consult our records._ "

   "Forget it. Got some fresh meat for you."

   " _Not to dissuade a potential customer, but I feel compelled to mention that the former primary purchaser of such items is no longer doing business in the state of California. I believe Chef Renaud has in fact relocated to international waters._ "

   "Figure of speech. Not for actual consumption." A hoarse chuckle. "Course that's always an option."

   " _Ah, the Slayers. Of course._ " A discreet cough. " _Has the procuress been apprised of our involvement?_ "

   A slow, unpleasant grin. "Not yet."

   " _Very good, sir. And may I say we look forward to doing further business with you._ "

   "Blow it out your ink sac."

   Kazarkh tosses the phone into a drawer, slamming it shut with a profound sigh of relief. One of the minions lets out a basso chuckle.

   "Good one, boss."

   "Can't stand talking to these pinkies-up types." Kazarkh stretches and yawns in exaggerated boredom, scratching for effect. "Anything left?"

   "Nah, I think we stripped 'em pretty clean. Why? You up for seconds?"

   "Duty calls. You and the boys hold the fort and sit tight. I'll be back."

   "Headin' out?"

   Kazarkh smiles his toothiest smile.

   "Goin' up."

  
**

   "What do you _mean_ , you're not comfortable here?"

   Like any woman thwarted, Willow's annoyance is plain. Dennis, while mindful of shifting societal mores, finds himself struggling for an acceptable answer. For many reasons, the truth never crosses his mind.

   "I mean, is it because you don't like seeing them? The girls?" Having found a plausible explanation, Willow latches on with all the tenacity of a capsized sailor. "It's that, isn't it?"

   From his admittedly limited exposure, the witch's tendency to interpret silence as consent is also habitual behavior on her part. Dennis decides to let her assume what she will. She isn't too far off the mark, after all. And his own reticence is as much a gentleman's desire to protect a lady's privacy.

   "Well, I kind of don't blame you. But I also kind of need my laptop."

   _Oh._ It takes Dennis a moment to notice that the word has made the leap from his thoughts to her screen without conscious intent. The anxiety of this realization keeps him from responding further, as he wrestles for some semblance of control.

   "If you want to try jumping into something else, be my guest. Though I can't make any guarantees if you want to get back in --"

   _No, it's all right._ Dennis girds his (possibly metaphorical) loins. _It's my problem. I'll deal with it._

   "You're sure?" While her face isn't visible, Willow's voice speaks volumes.

   _Absolutely._

   ( _not_ )

   "All right." The witch's skepticism is evident as she forces a hint of humor. "Just don't come crying to me when some floozy presses herself into your webcam."

   _I'll try not to complain._ Dennis rings the bell, for added emphasis. _Stiff upper lip, what?_

   "That's the spirit." A small chuckle. "Heh. Spirit."

   Dennis tunes her out as he mentally prepares himself for the daunting prospect of seeing his old fiancee again. He'd certainly never thought the term would be literal. The thought of them living together in their dotage, perhaps tearfully reuniting after years apart, had offered solace many times during his ghostly imprisonment. Still, the idea of fantasy becoming reality might take some adjustment. At least his current condition would spare him the embarrassment of being seen in a similar state of decrepitude.

   That brings him up short, left floundering and flummoxed. In his haste, he'd completely forgotten that he didn't even know what she now looked like. Without enough power to operate the webcam, he had only been able to listen as they discussed matters that in his time would have set a sailor's ears ablaze.

   "Hey, Lorne." Apparently while he'd been woolgathering, Willow had made another phone call. "Sure you don't want to join us here at the house of joy?"

   " _You go ahead, Willowbee. I'll be fine. Got my mug, got my scotch..._ "

   "Lorne." Willow sounds more disappointed than disapproving.

   " _It's _medicinal_ scotch,_ " the demon insists. " _Just the thing to clear my noggin after all that Brachen sweat._ "

   "Well, you're a big boy. Enjoy it in good health." Willow reluctantly dismisses her concern, only to sink into maudlin. "At least you have a mug to put it in."

   " _Hey, it's not like it's a bucket._ "

   "No, I just -- I used to have a _really_ nice library, you know? Xander had his comics, Buffy had her clothes...I collected first editions. It was part of why I thought Giles was so --" Willow clears her throat.

   " _Meet the new boss, no?_ "

   "My point is -- you have a home. Or at least a home town."

   " _Call it an adoption._ "

   "Whatever you want to call it. You may not have a lot, but you have a place to put it."

   " _Ah, said the dental patient._ "

   "I'm not saying possessions are the be-all, end-all of existence? But right now, Faith and I have the clothes on our backs. And the couple of suitcases we're living out of."

   " _Well, home is where the heart is. Which in my case, ah, the less you know the better for yours._ "

   "Oop, another call coming in. I'll let you know what's what as soon as I have some idea -- hello, yes? I said I'd be right up --"

   " _Change of plans._ "

   Dennis feels his ears prick up, his virtual hackles start to rise. Now that he's heard it once more, Linda's voice is as familiar to him as his own mother's, and certainly more dear. And while right now she may sound smooth as silk, he can hear the faintest hint of a tremor.

   " _I'd like you to meet with my shamaness in the conference room. I'll have one of the girls escort you._ " Linda clears her throat. " _I apologize for the lack of notice, but a private matter of some urgency currently requires my...undivided attention._ "

   "No problem," Willow chirps, drumming her fingers on the phone while gesturing impatiently with her free hand. "I'm looking forward to the shop talk. It's been a wh--hello?"

   Dennis abruptly flings himself against the invisible walls of his electronic prison, to no avail. The sudden, desperate need to be free of its confines comes hot on the heels of the horrible feeling that the woman he loves is in mortal danger.

   "Oh my goddess."

   Despite his growing panic, Willow's harsh intake of breath cuts through the speaker inputs, bringing sudden, crystalline clarity to his thoughts. It sounds as though the witch is having an epiphany of her own.

   "There was more than one..."

   She's already pulled out her phone, dialing even as he thinks to wonder _one what_. But Dennis isn't listening.

   The bubble of his world is expanding.

   And the pressure is enough to make him burst.

  
**

  
   "I think I've got it."

   "Is it painful?"

   "Why do you -- ow!" The sounds of struggling cease. "Never mind."

   "New plan?" It's amazing how hopeful Dawn can sound after untold hours trapped in total darkness.

   "Same plan." Vi takes a few shallow breaths. "Get out of here, smack down anything that gets in our way, return as -- _unf!_ \-- heroes."

   "Now why didn't I think of that."

   "Dawnie, has anyone ever told you that you really need to work on your cheerleading skills?"

   "Has anyone ever told you how much I hate that name? Oh, right. _Me_. About fifty million times."

   "Sorry."

   "And your escape artisms might be making you feel better, but --"

   "That's not even a real word." Vi takes another breath, getting more air this time. Good sign.

   "Look, I'm as much _never give up, never surrender_ as the next non-superpowered hostage. But whatever happened to conservation of energy? Waiting for the appropriate moment...striking while the iron is hot?"

   "Try to stay back," Vi grunts. "Your lack of enthusiasm may be catching."

   "I've never been good with demotivational speeches." Another sigh from out of the darkness. "And just so you know, my bladder isn't going to hold out much longer."

   "Overly informative concern noted."

   "Are you okay? Because you really sound --"

   "Stop...talking."

   "Sorry."

   "I mean...I think... _almost_ \--"

   With a click, the room floods with light.

   "Aah!" Dawn's cry of pain is drowned out by a heavy, metallic slam. "I'm blind!"

   " _Wow._ " A snuffling growl, punctuated by a slurp. " _I'm glad I'm not._ "

   Vi groans the groan of someone trying to coax their spine back into position. "As if this wasn't humiliating enough."

   " _No, that sort of talent can be good for some serious coin. Keep it up._ "

   Dawn can feel her eyes starting to adjust. She's already regretting it, although their dismal surroundings are somewhat livened up by their jailer's appearance. Not at all what she expected.

   " _Okay, girls. If anyone needs to visit Mrs. Murphy, now is the time._ "

   "What's going on?" Dawn tries to phrase it like a demand.

   " _Delivering the goods._ " Their captor shrugs both massive shoulders, sounding almost apologetic. " _Kazarkh said we got some customers who weren't too particular on size --_ "

   "Hey!" Dawn and Vi protest, in unison.

   " _As long as they can take a lot of punishment._ "

  
**

  
   "I've told you more times than I care to count. That's simply unacceptable." Madame Dorion nods, phone to her ear, impatiently tapping a pencil on the blotter. "Chevelle Catering stepped in, sir, after you left us in the lurch. With over a hundred guests --"

   The tinny voice of protest rises as she stares across her desk at the scattered statuary. Though the casual observer might take some of the decorations for genuine mystical items, their only real meaning was in her memories. Most of them were gifts from current or past employees, but a precious few dated back further still; pieces of the past to which she had somehow, through thick and thin -- mostly thin -- managed to hold on.

   "I understand your position quite well, sir. And without a doubt, may I say that you in all my years as a 'purveyor of perversity', as you so colorfully put it, you are the most reprehensible, loathsome little --"

   An emormous claw rips the phone from her hand, gripping and crushing it to splinters.

   " _Tell him you'll call back._ "

   Madame Dorion leans back in her chair, her spine remaining perfectly upright. "You'll be paying for that."

   " _Oh?_ " Kazarkh lifts a shaggy, satisfied eyebrow -- the little wisps of Fu Manchu grey, he had once informed her, which were the only body hair his species possessed. " _I suppose._ "

   _And whose bright idea was it to have no cameras or microphones in my office?_ Dorion nods a little nod of recollection. _Ah, yes. Mine._ "How did you get in here?"

   " _I could tell you, but -- well, we all know what comes next._ " The lizard-demon waddles around to the front of her chair, lidded eyes running over the elegant-but-casual evening gown she had chosen for the meeting. " _And I need a pretty face._ "

   Dorion quells the rising heartbeat, the subtle clamminess in her palms. She's been in worse situations. "What do you want?"

   " _What, you forgot already? Same thing I always wanted. You. And this place. Under my thumb._ " One claw meets the desk, piercing the blotter and sinking into the wood beneath. " _So to speak._ "

   "Your ridiculous attempt at an extortion plan?" Can it really be this simple? "You have no idea of what it takes to bluff bribe someone out of business in this town. You have no friends at Wolfram and Hart. All your threats are so much bluster."

   " _Except the one._ "

   "I imagine necrophilia would be a minority interest even among your potential clientele. Perhaps your shareholders."

   " _I don't need some fancy pants lawyer telling me how to do business._ " Kazarkh leans forward, shredding a stack of papers as he digs his claws further into her desk. " _You're nothing but a useful asset. Demons in and out of your building, day and night. Nobody ever think twice. You deal with the meatsacks down at City Hall. Come home, answer to me. Everything works out._ "

   "You're mad." Dorion returns his stare with impeccable calm. "And just what makes you think I'd agree to this arrangement?"

   " _You got no choice._ " Kazarkh gestures with one massive arm, pointing at the floor. " _We're already here._ "

   An icy torrent of possibility floods her brain. "Underground."

   " _You got a respected establishment. Good front. Like a restaurant. You'll be the public image._ " Kazarkh picks up the donkey, inspecting it with a curious eye as he runs a claw over its porcelain surface. " _Long as you remember who holds the real power._ "

   Her fingers are on the keys when Kazarkh grabs her by the wrist, his grip gentle enough that the claws don't even hurt. One scaly finger wiggles a warning as he places her hands in her lap.

   " _Yeah, let's see what we got here._ " The lizard-demon turns the laptop toward him, commandeering the keyboard with a grace and speed that bely his bulk. " _Yep...kinda figured._ "

   "You...know how to touch type?"

   " _Mavis Beacon._ "

   "And work a computer?" Dorion avoids sounding too incredulous.

   " _I called Geek Squad._ " Kazarkh scratches the slit of one nostril. " _Well, I tortured 'em a bit. Same difference._ "

   "I'm sure you'll be the latest viral hero."

   " _I'm not much for the spotlight. But these two?_ " The chill settles deep as he turns the screen toward her again. " _Quality product._ "

   "I don't sell slaves."

   " _Did I mention I had one of your heifers for dinner?_ "

   Her eyes focus on the slight bit of red at the corner of his mouth.

   A claw taps the top of the monitor, pulling her reluctant gaze back to the pair of strangers -- no. She can guess who they are.

   " _You're a whore who sells the meat I tell you to._ " Dorion remains absolutely still as the demon places the statue back on the desk. " _Screw takin' over._ "

   Kazarkh looms above, claws trailing up one silk-clad thigh.

   " _I'm movin' in._ "

  
**  


This entry was originally posted at <http://frogfarm.dreamwidth.org/130749.html>. Speak your piece there using OpenID or whatever.


	5. Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box" (conclusion)

_  
**Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x07: "Outside the Box" (conclusion)**   
_   


>   
> _Don't it feel like the wind is always howlin'?  
>  Don't it seem like there's never any light?  
> Once a day, don't you want to throw the towel in?  
> It's easier than puttin' up a fight..._   
> 

  
Surprise, surprise.

Haven't forgotten. Still care. Hope you do too.

Thanks as always to [](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/profile)[**sam_arkand**](http://sam-arkand.livejournal.com/) for able assistance, encouragement and inspiration through thick and thin. If you love [Stargate](http://stargate.wikia.com/wiki/Stargate_Wiki) and [Girl Genius](http://www.girlgeniusonline.com/), do please check out and be amazed by that distinguished author's own monumental crossover creation, [Sparkgate: Agatha and the Grasp of the Serpent God](http://forums.spacebattles.com/showthread.php?t=164834). How do you know it's quality if you don't trust my subjective tastes? How about the fact that it _actually has its own[page on TV Tropes](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/SparkgateAgathaAndTheGraspOfTheSerpentGod)_?

Yeah. That's what I thought.

It's been ~~forever~~ ~~half a year~~ too long since the last installment, so you're encouraged to go back and read what has gone before (I certainly did). But if we were to do a recap, it would probably go a little something like

 _Last time, on Faith the Vampire Slayer: The demon Kazarkh has taken Madame Dorion hostage and declared himself in charge of the brothel. Phantom Dennis has realized that his long-lost love -- Madame Dorion herself -- may be in danger. In the dungeons below the brothel, Dawn and Vi, having fled Buffy's London headquarters, are about to join the ranks of Kazarkh's new slaves. And Willow appears to have figured something out..._

  
 **(** [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/124399.html#cutid1) **)**  
 **(** [Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/127443.html) **)**  
 **(** [Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/128868.html) **)**  
 **(** [Act 3](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/132450.html) **)**

   _Of course there would be no signal._ Not that it matters, Willow thinks as she shoves the phone in her pocket and starts grabbing for everything on the desk. Because Faith still hasn't gotten her own phone after the last time. Is the Slayer even in Madame Dorion's office? The fear in Linda's voice had been real -- or had it? Because with no signal, there was no way for those last two calls to have even gotten through in the first place, and all of a sudden a certain witch is feeling very, very played.

   And all too on the verge of panic.

   Like her re-ensouling of Angelus, the creation of the Slayers -- or rather, division and multiplication -- had become a part of Willow, and even more so. Asleep or awake, for every moment of her existence each of them shines brightly inside her, a constant comforting presence. Stupid not to have known, to see that earlier echo had instead been mere reflection

   _going down_

   The chill and dank of musty basement instantly surrounds, crawling over her ghostly form, insinuating itself into imaginary lungs and nostrils. Willow suppresses an mostly unnecessary sneeze, conjuring the faintest glow as virtual eyesight begins to adjust. Having gotten her bearings, it's plain to see how she was fooled so easily, unable until now to spot the anomalies that enabled Kazarkh to hide his prisoners in plain sight. Their power and presence now shine once more, their light near to blinding.

   As she watches, the enormous rusting door begins to grind open. From the depths of a darkened cell emerges something monstrous and exquisite, leading two girls on a chain, humming a tuneless ditty.

   " _And miles of sheep to count before I sleep_ \-- hey, who are you?"

   Willow blinks, realizing the creature is addressing her. _You can see --_ The witch squints. _Is that a horn?_

   "What? No!" The enormous head shakes from side to side. "No, I'm not -- you must be --"

   _It's okay!_ Willow tries not to stare. _Really, I mean -- wow._

   "But you," it rumbles, blushing under her gaze. "You're not --"

   _No, not for -- years. Long time._

   "Oh, it was the -- other --" The blush deepens. "Right, sorry. My mistake."

   "Who are you talking to?" Vi peers about in the darkness. "Are you going loco on us?"

   "I'm not sure," Dawn interjects, gripping the cuffs at her wrists. "Maybe he's having second thoughts. About our deal."

   "What deal?" Vi scoffs. "I told you, we've got nothing these guys want but our bodies. For food or sex or God knows what. And they're not getting these bodies." She straightens, head held high. " _Someone's_ gonna die first."

   "Ladies? Indoor voice?" Lushawn clears his throat, reluctantly wrenching his gaze away from the confusing new apparition of loveliness before him. "I can let you go all I want, but there's still an army between you and the exit. And they won't fall for the _oh, we're just helpless girls_ act."

   "I am _not_ helpless." Vi glares, defiant. "Homie don't play that."

   "You do have to admit," Dawn admits. "That tactic _is_ getting a little stale."

   "Is it my fault if the troops adopt known successful stratagems in the field?" Vi's demand falls a bit flat with her hands in chains, rather than on her hips. "And could you possibly pick a more inconvenient time to criticize?"

   " _Yeah_ ," comes a new voice. " _You could have waited 'til right now_."

   "Don't shoot!" Dawn falls to her knees, struggling to raise chained hands above her head. "We're helpless girls!"

   " _My favorite_." The newcomer moves forward, ignoring the now-frozen Lushawn. " _Come to papi..._ "

   Its slavering ends in a squawk as Dawn's lock pick finds an ear and sinks in.

   "Damn!"

   The word is uttered simultaneously by Lamar and Rondell. Having traversed the subtunnels below Kazarkh's diggings had left both men itching for action. Still, there was a definite satisfaction to be had in watching the lithe young woman grimly push her attacker loose with one boot, sending its rubbery limbs sprawling all over the cement floor.

   Dawn wipes her pick on the corpse and stands with a scowl. "They always fall for that."

   "Oh yeah." Vi grins, nodding at her friend. " _She's_ the dangerous one."

   "Guess you ain't in need of no rescuin'." Lamar offers a grin that threatens to crumble Dawn's resolve.

   "We've got a whole building full of people who might be." The younger Summers turns to Lushawn with a deadly glare. "You up for it?"

   The hapless hulk sends a silent, imploring gaze Willow's way. Or rather, her astral form's way.

   _Sorry, big guy._ The witch smiles and spreads her hands. _You're on your own._

   She fades out and comes to just as quickly, reorienting as she settles back into her body. The momentary discomfort passes, leaving the usual nauseated tummy. Strictly physical; nothing to do with nerves. By her estimation, the team below can handle anything coming their way, with or without their strange new helper.

   "But meanwhile, above ground --" She addresses her possessed laptop as she resumes scooping up papers. "Faith and the others are facing off against superior numbers. Invading from below, from the ground up. And so they --" She snaps the satchel shut. "Are probably more likely in need of a hand. Only logical. Right, Dennis?"

   She slings the bag over one shoulder, only then realizing the lack of an answering beep.

   "Dennis?"

   Willow flips open the screen, staring at a single word.

   **UP**

  
**

  
   She always suspected it would end this way, or something like. To hope for more was a fool's fantasy. Oh, she could spin a good yarn; dry the girls' eyes and keep their spirits high, encouraging them to believe in a better tomorrow. And for some, that was enough. But though she never lost sight of her dreams, neither had she been blinded by them. Not for one moment did she forget that the life they had chosen was all too often like their clients: Nasty, brutish and short.

   At least her killer will be tall.

   "Don't worry, sweetness. We'll keep you around." Kazarkh's gold-flecked slitted eyes gleam with amusement, his talons drifting further up her thigh. "Long as we can find _some_ use for y--"

   The words are lost in both the roar from the demon's throat and the whirlwind that sweeps him off his feet, sending his flailing body hurtling into the wall. Dorion winces at the impact, covering her ears as the room erupts in a hail of objects that repeatedly swarm her foe, retreating in their orbits only to careen wildly back upon him like a horde of kamikaze bees. Kazarkh struggles to shield himself from a storm of knickknacks and writing implements, narrowly dodging a hefty paperweight that embeds itself in the wall next to his face.

   "The hell!" Kazarkh wrenches his tail free, blocking a silverware tray gunning straight for his neck. "You gotta pet poltergeist?"

   Dorion responds by grabbing the nearest object -- in this case, a potted ficus -- and flinging it with all her might. As she strives to maintain her footing in horribly unfashionable heels, the pot is caught up by the unseen force, abruptly altering trajectory and screaming straight for the demon's face. Kazarkh barely succeeds in batting the missile aside, resulting in a spectacular explosion of dirt and pottery shards. Before she can turn to run the demon has forced his way forward through the chaos, grabbing her arm in one massive claw.

   The swirling cloud of junk freezes in mid-air, trembling in seeming hesitation.

   "Side door..." Karzarkh mumbles, gesturing. Dorion obeys, drawing the tapestry aside and releasing the hidden latch. At this point, she's hardly surprised by her captor's level of knowledge. The only remaining question is the source of that information. Though at this juncture, she has more pressing concerns.

   "My office." The lizard king's enormous chest heaves as he struggles for breath. claws scrabbling at the grate. "Might not be as nice as yours, but it's secur--"

   A gout of flame belches from the air duct, narrowly missing them both as Kazarkh half-leaps, half-stumbles out of the way. Regardless of his grace or lack thereof, Dorion has never been one to look gift horses in the mouth. Or anywhere else.

   "Only one other way!" Kazarkh growls, nursing the singed tip of his tail. "Gotta go up..."

   "So you have a helicopter on the roof?"

   Kazarkh gives her a blank look. Dorion attempts to clarify.

   "For your escape?"

   "...fuck me." Kazarkh deflates visibly, regarding her with fresh respect. "We shoulda been partners."

   "It's a shame we'll never know."

   "Really?"

   "Not really."

   Neither of them wastes another breath on speech. Kazarkh's comparatively stubby legs and her damn treacherous heels only contribute to the cold sensation of moving in slow motion as they ascend, pursued by the sounds of battle drifting up from below. From the sound of it, her side may not be losing. This fails to improve her disposition.

   She stumbles and Kazarkh snarls, urging her toward the fire escape. The spark of rebellion begins to fan into a flame.

   "There they are!"

   Something flies by her, hitting the wall and sending out a shower of fragments. The chorus of voices that erupt from behind are apparently berating the shooter, either for bad aim or firing at all. The words don't register as Dorion allows herself to be pulled through the door, covering her eyes in vain against the glare of day.

   Beside her, Kazarkh roars a challenge.

   "Too late."

   The sun may have left her blinded, but Dorion recognizes the voice. As her sight returns she can make out Faith standing at the vanguard of the pack, directly blocking the door they just emerged from.

   "Nowhere to run." Faith's inexorable declaration gives way to the tiniest of smiles. "Maybe those fancy lawyers can getcha outta this one."

   "Just shoot him already!" urges the girl from the Eastern bloc. "God, if I have to listen to one more villain speech I will stake myself!"

   "It's not like he doesn't deserve it." The vampire courtesan bares her fangs in a predatory smile. "We can still be back in time for tea."

   "Lucky for you this ain't a democracy." Faith's smile vanishes. "Let her go and it won't hurt. Too much."

   "You think I need those prancing ponies at Wolfram and Hart?" Kazarkh's guttural grinding is made worse by the strings of saliva hanging from his jaw, evidence of his unaccustomed exertion. Dorion looks away in revulsion. Left to her imagination, the sounds are worse.

   "Looks like you need all the friends you can get." For the first time, Faith looks directly at Dorion herself.

   "Little girls playing soldier," Kazarkh spits. "I don't care where you come at me. You got a judge? I got three. You got a platoon, I got an army! You think this is over? I got two words for you! _Fu_ \--"

   A subdued _pop_ echoes all around.

   Kazarkh crumples to the rooftop.

  
**

  
   The body lies still, dead center in the crosshairs.

   "Nice shot." The sound of her voice reminds him Kate is still there, beside him. "Time to go."

   As if in a dream, the barrel of his rifle begins to shift a fraction to the left. Kate is saying his name but there is only the darkened window of the scope, the sight of Faith as she fills his field of vision. The light callous on his finger still resting atop the trigger.

   The dry meat of his tongue, toying at the corner of his mouth.

   "David."

   A cool metal circle presses into his neck.

   " _Time to go._ "

   He blinks, and the moment is gone.

   "Yeah." He stands and slings the rifle over his shoulder, not looking at her, or the gun in her hand. "Let's get out of here."

  
**

  
   "Well, looks like our work here is done."

   Rona raises an eyebrow at Faith. "You're lookin' a little smug for someone who came late on the scene and took all the credit."

   "Hey, we were here first." Willow nudges Faith in the ribs. "And we'll be gone first."

   "You're sure you don't want to stick around?" Rona looks about her. Madame Dorion's office is still undergoing restoration, but at least the walls are standing. As for the tunnels Kazarkh dug, those are being fully mapped out by their new owner, Dorion having acquired the new territory through what Willow termed _reverse possession_.

   The rest of the brothel had suffered only minor damage, and cleanup was proceeding adequately with a work crew consisting of Lushawn, eager for a stable and peaceful position now that he was free of his old boss, and the treacherous temporal-folding maid who had betrayed the brothel, Willow having put her and her powers on a very tight leash. What few hostiles hadn't perished in the battle had been handily routed, and if all was not exactly well with the world, things seemed a little better.

   "Best we keep moving." Willow gives Faith another meaningful look. "I'm thinking the trail doesn't end here."

   "Suck," Vi grumbles. Dawn gives her a dirty look.

   "Hey, we're not skipping town this second." Faith claps the younger Slayer on the shoulder. "Why don't you come back to Lorne's with us? Gotta pick up our stuff."

   "What there is of it." Willow bites her lip before brightening again. "But yeah. Everyone loves Lorne!"

   "I'll take a rain check." Rona nods across the desk at Madame Dorion, sitting in quiet composure as she scrutinizes a pile of documents. "Need to get up to speed if I'm takin' over your gig."

   "Don't screw it up." Faith waits for the glare, then grins anyway. "Brothers got it going on, huh?"

   "You could say." Rona grins back, thoughts of Rondell and crew briefly running rampant.

   "You go on, girls." Dorion bestows one of those wise, all-knowing nods upon Rona. "I would say that for the moment, our position is reasonably secure. Thanks to Mister Nabbit's generous investment --"

   "Chump change." Faith shakes her head in bemusement.

   "-- and the legal trust he created, giving myself and the girls controlling interest. In effect, making us co-owners."

   From Willow's laptop bag comes a subdued _beep_.

   "So, to our new benefactor..."

   Dorion raises a fluted glass.

   "And our new mascot."

  
**

  
   Kazarkh has been upside down before, plenty of times. That's how he recognizes the position when he finally starts to regain consciousness.

   Somehow, this comes as no surprise.

   Movement turns out to be a lost cause. Chains, from the sound of it.

   One eyelid peels open, blinking furiously in an attempt to focus his vision.

   Something across the room is moving. Kazarkh squints, trying with all his might to see...

   Himself, dangling, wearing a custom-fit black leather gimp mask.

   Okay -- somewhat surprised.

   Also? No way to unsee.

   As he hangs there, gently swaying back and forth, the door swings open.

   "I hear this one can take a _lot_ of punishment."

  
**

  
   "You're certain you don't wish them observed?"

   "Elise, if the Partners themselves are divided, who the Hell am I to press the matter?" The representative from Wolfram and Hart cradles his forehead. "That's a rhetorical question."

   "The very best kind, sir."

   "What did I say about mocking me?"

   "The position does come with a minimum sarcasm requirement." The assistant regards him over the rims of her now-horned glasses. "Sir."

   "And why should I put my neck on the line? They're the ones whining about doing more with less." The representative loosens his collar, fanning his brow with a legal folder. "All the seers agree the Slayer and her bitch will be leaving the states. And the foreign branches aren't interested in picking up our slack. Do you have any idea how much it would cost this firm every day to have them properly tailed?"

   "Between --"

   "Rhetorical." The representative glares to establish authority before moving on.

   "The Partners consider them a level one threat. But that doesn't make them a level one priority. Too much long-term planning has been Wolfram and Hart's downfall this millennia. And what has it gotten us? Some minor satisfaction, to be sure. Some petty revenge. But no real, major victories."

   He waits for the assistant to disagree, who merely returns his gaze.

   "So we let the fool do our spywork for us." He slides a photo of David into place beside that of the Slayer. "Leave a trail of Angelus, for her to follow."

   The representative closes the folder on his desk, leaning back and shutting his eyes.

   "And let her dig her own grave."

  
**

  
   Confiscating, selectively editing and deleting the footage of Dawn Summers from the airport computer network takes far more time than planned. Just the kind of technical challenge in which he usually takes a rather fine relish. Except the whole time David feels like he should be amazed -- once again, magic is bloody well real -- he's back in the border between Dis and functional, reliving those moments on the roof. A puppet going through the motions, while inside the walls of his skull an unknown battle rages.

   Whoever the hell he is?

   That guy has _issues_.

  
**

  
   Everything feels like too much aftermath. Maybe epilogue. Still, even with so many unknowns left on their plate, Faith is feeling pretty solid. Apart from the awkward moment when Lorne overheard Dawn humming ("Honey, green suits you"). In the absence of any further evidence, Willow had speculated that Dawn's disappearance from the guard's perception was simply an unconscious defensive maneuver that went too far, and urged her to seek magickal training as soon as possible from a reputable source.

   "So, not you."

   "Yeah, I still deserve that." Willow smiles to show the lack of hard feelings. "What are you guys --"

   "HALO JUMP?" This from Faith, who is currently regarding Vi with repulsion and awe.

   "Oh, it's so cool!" Vi bounces with enthusiasm. Faith hides a grin as Willow drags her reluctant gaze upward. "Mister Giles hired these Israeli guys to teach us these mad skills, and I got to drive a tank! Briefly."

   "Yeah," Rona chimes in. "Right through the castle living room."

   "Figures -- wha?" Faith's eyes widen. " _Castle?_ "

   "Well, it came with the --" Vi develops an abrupt and intense interest in her sneakers.

   "Okay. It's official." Faith rolls her eyes. "I'm old."

   Willow peers at her scalp. "Is that a white hair?"

   "Pot _and_ kettle, Miss Henna-from-the-bottle."

   "So you don't want to see all the stuff we got through customs?" Rona looks innocent as she unbuckles her pack. "Body armor, extendo-stakes, ultralight crossbow, grapple hooks..."

   Faith stares at the pile. "What the hell is this?"

   "Just a little spare gear," Rona says. "Grabbed it on our way out. They'll never miss it. Want one?"

   "Shit, in my day all you needed was a good piece of woo--" Faith's expression crumbles. "Ah, fuck me. _I'm_ B."

   "The _old_ Buffy." Willow pats her on the arm. "The new one obviously being more Roger Moore than Sean Connery."

   "Damn right I'm wearing armor." Rona flexes a bicep and slaps it for emphasis. "This body's too sweet to get marked up."

   "And is that..." Faith peers suspiciously. "Some kind of scuba rig?"

   "Rebreather," Vi supplies, ever helpful.

   "You believe this?" Faith turns to Willow, who merely waves it off.

   "Hey, Will?" Vi indicates a particular piece of hardware. "Speaking of Buffy -- you think you can you hack our GPS so I can actually use it without her tracking us?"

   Willow looks dumbfounded. "We have our own _satellites?_ "

   "Um..." Vi hesitates. "Just the one. But we triangulate or something with --"

   "Honey?" Willow turns and buries her face in Faith's shoulder. "It's the big one. I'm comin' for ya..."

   A worried beep echoes from the table.

   "Don't worry, Dennis. Just a little drama." Willow glances over at her open laptop. "You gonna be okay?"

   "All those hot young things comin' and goin'?" Faith grins. "Boy's gonnna be in hog heaven."

   The answering beep wobbles up the scale and down.

   "I think it's a fabulous notion," Lorne interjects. "Cordy's old place a brand-new Slayer safehouse? Me your liason to the land of the living? And can you believe, David Paymer's brother lives right down the hall! Twist _my_ arm!"

   _I do like it here. It's nice._ The cursor hesitates. _But it's just not home._

   "Well." Willow puts on the kind of brave smile that makes Faith's heart want to sink. "Guess that only leaves one thing."

  
**

  
   "Xander?"

   " _Willow_."

   "Dawn's okay."

   " _I know_." The tinny electronic warble of a cleared throat echoes from the receiver. " _Just got the report_."

   "Oh right -- you have intel. I mean...of course you would."

   Faith turns and stares out the window. Will's idea, for her to be here listening in. Something about _trust, but verify_. Only makes her feel like a peeping tomboy.

   " _Hey, as long as I've got you -- except I guess you could always hang up --_ "

   "Go on," Willow murmurs.

   " _I know I don't have a lot of credibility when it comes to Angel. Especially after the whole kick-his-ass. But if I had it to do over...I'd try not to let bad blood get in the way of my decision_."

   "That's good." A small rustling sound, like someone drying their eyes.

   " _I'm not apologizing. Or trying to excuse what I did_." Another throat clearing. " _So there's that_."

   "Do you want to talk to Faith? I could go get her --"

   " _You don't have to tell her any of this. You don't even have to tell her we talked. It's probably better if you don't. I just..._ " A heavy sigh. " _I'm glad you called. I miss you_."

   "I miss you too." A hint of a sniffle. "God, this stinks."

   " _And I totally get why you guys cut loose. I almost walked out myself, just the other day. But -- we're still patching things up here. And if Giles has to go it alone, he'll work himself to death_."

   "Can't have that." The ghost of humor emerges through Willow's voice. "Don't want the Watchers going all extincty."

   " _Well, he already named me his successor_." Exhale. " _Yeah. Go figure_."

   "You'll be awesome," Willow assures him. "Although you might want to find more qualified X chromosomes. So you don't have to fall back on Andrew."

   " _Actually, he's become far less annoying. Maybe it's just me_." A weary chuckle. " _One more thing_."

   Faith looks back to find Willow now openly smiling. "What's that, Lieutenant?"

   " _I have to -- it's the reason I went to Africa._ " Another deep breath. " _Why I almost left yesterday_."

   The smile disappears.

   " _The money we used. To finance our operations, after we shut down the Hellmouth -- remember you and I were always saying the Watcher's Council had more bank accounts than the Vatican?_ " A deep breath. " _Except it didn't all come from Giles. Remember when you guys, and by guys I mean girls -- women -- remember RJ's jacket, and I know you do so we can skip the embarrassing parts and get to where Anya apparently knocked over a freaking bank?_ "

   "A bah? Ban--" Willow's hand flies to her mouth, eyes going round.

   " _When we skipped town. We packed up all her things, the night before..._ " A silence, followed by a rough swallow. " _All the money she'd saved -- it was all there. Along with a few hot million courtesy of First National, branch of Sunnydale_."

   "Goddess." Willow seems ready to say more, but instead lapses once more into silence.

   " _I found it when we stopped at that first motel. When we started unpacking the bus." A heavy sigh. "Buffy wanted to use it to fund the new Council. And all I could say was...when did we go from saving the world to being Ocean's Eleven?_ "

  
**

  
   "I didn't know it bothered you that much."

   "Well." Xander puts the phone down, staring across the room. "Now you know."

   "And knowing is half the battle." Buffy returns his gaze unflinching. Though he thinks he might still get a flinch without the eyepatch.

   "You said I could listen," she continues with a shrug. "No guarantee I'd like what I heard. But you were right."

   "About?"

   "About Timothy Dalton being an underappreciated Bond. About the red pumps not going with that skirt." Buffy's lips curl in not quite a smile. "And about letting her go."

   "Only with a massive network of sorcerous spies keeping tabs on her every move."

   " _Little_ sister? Not quite ready to cut the apron strings just yet." Buffy drops her gaze. "Funny how she's not the one I'm worried about."

   "Wills can take care of herself." But as he says it, he knows the truth.

   "I _didn't_ think about how Faith might react. It honestly never entered into my head. I was too focused on my pain. Personal life, professional conflict." Buffy draws a deep breath, hands on her knees. From this angle, her feet drawn up beneath her, Xander thinks they could almost be back in high school. "But it's too late to apologize. We're beyond that."

   "Given what you two have been through?" Xander wrestles with tact and settles for succinct. "I'd say it's never too late."

   "The best thing we can do now is leave her alone." Buffy looks at him once more, her expression open and raw. "If they need help, or want to talk -- they know how to get in touch. But we're juggling too many other problems right now. If we stop, even for a minute -- everything we've worked for comes crashing down."

   Xander considers the possibility.

   "Are you with me?"

   He looks into her eyes.

   "Always."

  
**

  
   "Damn," Dawn breathes in admiration. "That's one sweet ride."

   "Your sister know you eat with that mouth?" Faith inquires, as she finishes peeling back the tarp. Having finished moving Lorne and Dennis into Cordy's apartment, they've gathered at the storage facility to add a few items, as well as bid a hopefully temporary farewell to Wesley's legacy.

   "My sister could stand to eat more with her mouth," Dawn retorts, before brightening. "Can I?"

   "I don't think it's been started in a..." Willow coughs and waves away smoke as the motor roars to life. "While."

   "Way to go, Dawnster!" Faith offers her palm. Dawn returns the high five before shutting down.

   "Where'd you learn how?" Vi's curiosity is mixed with equal parts envy. "My mother wouldn't even let me ride without training wheels until I was twelve. And then my dad had to be with me, so he, um, took me down the really steep hills."

   "Oh." Dawn's statement is airy, even dismissive. "Spike taught me."

   Faith can hear a hint of strain below the surface, and a touch of fading memory from Willow provides the answer. Her fingers draw up into fists at the thought. If she'd known, back when they had that little spat in Buffy's living room, she might not have allowed the vampire to limp away in one piece.

   She nearly laughs aloud at the incongruity. Still defending the bitch who stabbed her in the back.

   "Will you take us riding? Before you leave?" Vi clasps her hands together, batting her eyelashes. "Pretty pleasey?"

   "Uh..." Faith abruptly wants somewhere to hide. The sensation grows as Willow looks at her in understanding, or remembrance.

   "You don't know _how_ to --"

   "I said I'd ridden a _biker_." Faith scowls and looks away. Vi actually looks more embarrassed for her sake.

   "It's okay," Dawn says. "She can't drive a car either."

   "I can drive better than..." Faith fumes momentarily. "I can hotwire an '87 Olds!"

   "You've _never_ driven?" Willow is looking entirely too interested in this topic.

   "Never had lessons. Or classes." Faith perks up. "Well -- there was the time me and Randy got shitfaced? And half the cops in Boston are chasin' this little hippie microbus across campus?"

   "Um." Willow purses her lips. "Motorcycles?"

   "Well, I was ridin' with the Bandito? And I'm up on the handlebars when he hits ninety, cranked to the --"

   "No more sharing!" Willow raises both hands in surrender, her face growing crimson. "Dawnie, are you street legal?"

   "Unless I disappear again." Dawn pulls out her wallet and proudly displays its contents. "Fully licensed and insured."

   "How about it, sweetie?" Willow takes Faith by the hand, deceptively casual. "Wanna let the kids take her out for a spin?"

   "Sure." Faith's watching Vi and Dawn wheel the bike out onto the street, when they almost bump into a pedestrian passing by. "Heads up!"

   "Demon!" Vi hollers. With a mighty leap, the two of them crash to the ground.

   "Oh, come on!" The demon -- a Horvath, Faith thinks -- raises its claws. "Can't a guy even walk down the street in this town?"

   "Depends what kind of guy you are, _guy_." Vi cocks her fist, ready to unleash. "Hey -- what's your shirt say?"

   "Can I just -- there." Carefully, the demon tugs its apparel into place until the words are clear:

   _I ESCAPED THE HELLMOUTH AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT_

   "Hey, don't rip it! This thing is a collector's item --"

   Vi climbs to her feet, dusting her hands off. "Scram."

   "You sure -- bye." Without a backward glance, the Horvath is off and running.

   "You're such a softy." Dawn sighs with disapproval.

   "You told me the Horvath were mostly harmless." Vi shrugs. "I can go after him --"

   "Later."

   Faith gives a little sigh inside as they watch the younger girls ride off. Willow, snuggled into her shoulder once more, looks up.

   "So am I riding bitch?"

   Faith grins. "Only sometimes."

   "Hey!"

  
**

  
   "So this is goodbye." Kate stands in the doorway of her office, watching David pack up his things with mechanical efficiency. "Can't say I'll miss you."

   "Some partnerships aren't meant to last." David flashes a pleasant smile as he finishes stowing away paperwork. He'll figure out where to ditch the gun before the next border. Shouldn't be more than a day before the Slayer and her girlfriend decide which way to head next. And how many miles to Babylon?

   "But you did help me get the bastard who killed my father," she continues, as if he hadn't said a word. "So I'd offer you one last bit of free advice." A sardonic twitch mars the perfection of her lower lip. "If I thought you'd actually take it."

   "What can I say?" David shrugs. "I go where the job takes me."

   "You go where the boss sends you," she bluntly replies. "Doesn't matter which one. You follow your own path, you might walk with them for a while. But it can't last forever."

   "It never does." David holds out an expectant hand. "Thanks."

   She hesitates only a moment before accepting. He hoists the bag over his shoulder and opens the door, admiring the freshly etched bulletproof glass.

   Lockley Private Investigations never looked so good.

   "Be seeing you."

   With a final look at the grey desert sky, David walks on down the road.

  
     _It's almost a feeling you can touch in the air  
     You look all around you, but nobody's there  
     It's been a long time now since you've been aware  
     That someone is watching you.  
     He's gonna get you..._

     - Alan Parsons

  


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